


Calling on Song

by Eirlithad



Series: Calling on Song [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Explicit Language, F/M, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, Mild Sexual Content, Minor Blackwall/Josephine Montilyet, Minor Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Red Lyrium, Red Lyrium Cullen, Sera Being Sera, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-09-21 16:19:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 33
Words: 54,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9556916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eirlithad/pseuds/Eirlithad
Summary: Kasde Rhiannon Trevelyan was promised to the Chantry. Fate found her at the Conclave. The Maker saw her through it. As the world falls down around her, she decides to take a stand. With a little determination, and a fair amount of snark, she just might make a difference.Now with pictures!





	1. Prologue: Not Alone

_Blessed are the peacekeepers, champions of the just._

          Blindly, bloody fingers scrabbled in the dust. She knew the words. If she could only just _remember_ them, she might get out of this alive.

_Blessed are the righteous…_

          Staggering to her feet, she couldn’t shake the overwhelming feeling of _wrongness_ in the air. Where was she? Where was everyone else? She stumbled on through the dense fog, head spinning as she looked for something – anything. Faint clicks followed her every step, but she was far too delirious to tell where, exactly, they came from.

_Where was I? Right, right. Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow._

          She paused to strain her eyes in the dark. Was the fog _green?_ And there, as if Maker sent, a set of worn stone steps, leading…up? Steeling herself, she trudged on. She needed to get out of there – anywhere – and up was as good as anything.

_Blessed… Blessed are…the lights in the shadow. In their blood, the Maker’s will is written._

          She cringed. Wrong canticle. Benedictions had never been one of her favorites. With cold dread pooling in her gut, she wracked her brain. The Chant had never failed her before.

_Though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide. I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond._

           Lost and weary, she cast her eyes upward. A door, like a promise, shed light upon her. Something wet trickled down her dirt-stained cheek, and she smiled.

            _For there is no darkness in the Maker’s Light, and nothing that he has wrought shall be lost._

           Suddenly, an eye-piercing shriek broke the silence. She turned on the steps, only to find a mass of black shapes steadily advancing on her position. With a grunt, she resumed her flight.

           “I am not alone!” she cried into the dark. “Even as I stumble on the path with my eyes closed—” Fate, it seemed, had an ironic sense of humor, as her foot slid from under her. She crashed to the stone, biting back the pain, and crawled. “Even as I stumble…yet I see…!” Fumbling, flailing, she gripped the top step, and something warm circled her wrist. Her eyes shot up, then flew wide.

            _Andraste?_

           The door was little more than an opening, a tear that peeked into the world beyond. Before it stood a woman, shrouded in golden light. Peace and courage welled within her in equal measure. She found she could endure.

          And then, she was hauled abruptly to her feet, and shoved toward the opening. As she collapsed, she could just barely make out two, very human shapes running toward her. Her eyes fluttered closed, and she fought to form words through her exhaustion.

          “Yet I see…the Light…is here…”


	2. Tangled Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As she lay dreaming, clarity came to her in brief, jarring flashes. A voice she didn’t recognize, barking orders. A face she couldn’t place, pleading for help. Flashes of red splattered across a crest she struggled to make out, and a horse ran across a blood-soaked field. Amidst the disjointed jumble of memories, a kind voice called her home.

         She woke to the cold and dank, damp stone biting painfully into her knees. How long had she been in such a position? The air smelled faintly of mold, wet straw, and the choking scent of torch smoke. Blearily, she blinked her eyes open and moved to wipe her face, only to find she could not.

         Heavy iron bonds forced her hands to her lap. Even with the proper tools, her movement was too constrained to pick the locks. It was a moot point, considering she had nothing on her person. Even the clothes she wore were not her own. The rough material scratched at her skin as she adjusted, trying to alleviate the straining in her legs and back. A low groan escaped her.

         She wasn’t alone, that much she knew. Two men watched her warily, swords draw in her direction. And behind her, she could sense two more. She was bound; they were likely guards, she surmised. Beyond the heavy door at the other end of the room, footsteps grew louder and nearer. Distantly, she was aware of a throbbing ache in her hand. When she glanced downward to inspect it, the ache turned to outright pain as a green spark shot from her palm.

         Funny, but she didn’t recall having _that_ particular scar before.

         The door flung open with little warning, and a tall, dark-haired woman strode in. A second woman followed, silent and cowled, clinging to the shadows as though one of them. The first made a vague gesture, and the guards lowered their weapons. Her breastplate bore a flaming eye, painted in white. She circled, not unlike a predator.

         Clearly not concerned for her own safety, she leaned close. When she spoke, a distinctly Nevarren accent coated her words. “Tell me,” she demanded, “why we shouldn’t kill you now?”

         So, that was how it was going to be. The prisoner fought down a curt reply. However, she didn’t see a reason to answer so pointless a question. Whether she gave a reason or not – whether she liked it or not – it was ultimately up to them if she lived or died. She wasn’t foolish enough to delude herself.

         “The Conclave is destroyed. Everyone who attended is dead.”

         Surprise jolted through her gut. Dead? Memories flooded into her brain – standing between a Revered Mother and a particularly imposing Templar. Talks of peace. The smell of ozone. Chaos. Screaming.

         The Conclave had failed.

         “Except for you.”

         She frowned. Ah, there was the crux of the matter. True or not, something had gone very, very wrong, and someone needed to be held accountable. With that in mind, she pressed her lips shut and glared.

         The Nevarren gripped her wrist painfully and hauled her still-glowing hand into view. “Explain _this_!” she snarled. As if on cue, her hand sparked painfully.

         “I…can’t!” The words were out before she could snatch them back.

         “What do you mean, you _can’t?_ ”

         “I don’t know what that is, or how it got there.” Her defense was falling apart before she’d even had the time to form one. If she didn’t do something soon, she was as good as dead.

         “You’re lying!” the Nevarren accused, and lunged for her.

         Suddenly, the cowled woman was there, pushing her companion back. “We need her, Cassandra!” The same, flaming eye patterned the brooch at her throat. Why did it seem so familiar?

         Unhappy, but placated for the time being, the Nevarren stepped back.

         “So,” the prisoner ground out, unable to hide the disdain in her voice. “What happens now?”

         The Nevarren, Cassandra, snorted, unimpressed.

         Her counterpart tilted her shrouded head, revealing a slash of red beneath her hood. “Do you remember what happened? How this began?”

         Truthfully, she couldn’t remember anything of the day – days? – before, much less her name, but that sort of response wasn’t going to save her. “I remember running,” she cracked, realizing too late the humor was lost on them. “Things were chasing me. And then…a woman?”

         The redhead seemed intrigued. “A woman?”

         “She reached out to me, but then…” Tangled memories slipped beyond her grasp, and she growled in frustration.

         Cassandra pulled her companion aside, muttering quietly. The cowled woman nodded obediently before leaving the room. The Nevarren returned and, much to the prisoner’s surprise, unlocked her shackles.

         “What did happen?” she asked boldly.

         The Nevarren snorted again. “It would be easier to show you.”

         Doubt pricked at the back of her mind. She had little choice but to follow. That didn’t mean she had to like it. She waited patiently while her wrists were bound with twine, fighting to keep her opinions to herself.

         Cassandra escorted her from her cell, leading them upstairs into a Chantry hall. Something in the way firelight bounced off the columns to light Andraste’s stone eyes comforted her weary soul. The sharp smell of incense helped clear the fog in her mind.

          _Maker_ , she thought to herself, _what have I stepped in this time?_

          The light from outside was bright and relentless in her eyes. Gingerly, she crept from the relative safety of the Chantry into the open. What her weary eyes beheld next rooted her to the ground.

          The sky was torn. Lightning, tinged an eerie emerald, struck from the swirling mass of dark clouds above the mountain range. Fibrils of green energy poured from the gap in the sky, snaking down beyond sight. She felt her mouth fall open.

          “We call it the Breach,” Cassandra intoned. “It’s a tear into the world of demons, and it grows each hour.” She turned, noting a distinct lack of response. “It is not the only such rift,” she continued, “merely the largest. All were caused by the explosion at the Conclave.”

          “An explosion can do that?” A nervous thrill coursed through her. Had she survived such a thing? Silently, she thanked her lucky stars, and the Maker, for good measure.

          Cassandra’s expression darkened. “This one did.” She turned to glance at the sky. “Unless we act now, the Breach could swallow the world.”

          Suddenly, the so-called Breach expanded with a peal of thunder. Her hand responded in kind, stretching toward the sky of its own accord, spewing green energy. The sudden pain tore a ragged cry from her throat and dropped her to the dirt.

          The Nevarren caught her, thankfully before her knees hit the ground. Her eyes were wild, concern tugging at the edges of her mouth. “Each time the Breach expands, your mark spreads.” As if to prove her point, she tugged at the prisoner’s sleeve. What had started as a small, coiling scar on her palm had grown to cover the base of her thumb. “It is killing you,” she insisted. “It may be the key to stopping this, but there isn’t much time.”

          “So, I don’t really have a choice about this,” the prisoner snapped. Unable to place a reason as to why, the thought of being used stoked her temper.

          “None of us has a choice,” Cassandra replied piously, and helped her to her feet.

          As the two women moved through the village, countless faces turned their way, tinged with varying degrees of grief.

          “They have decided your guilt,” Cassandra remarked. “They need it. Divine Justinia is gone, along with a great many of their loved ones.” They reached gatehouse, and even the guards there watched her with contempt. “We tried for peace – to end the rising conflict between mages and Templars – but in bringing their leaders together, it seems we condemned them to death.”

          “That’s not my fault!”

         Cassandra eyed he tiredly, as though she had not made such accusations herself. “I can promise you a trial,” she murmured, tugging her along. “Nothing more.”

         “That doesn’t make me want to help you.”

         The two trudged on up the hill, the prisoner struggling to keep her footing in boots two sizes too large. All the while, she kept watchful eyes on the Nevarren, twisting at her bonds whenever her back was turned. If she was headed to slaughter, she refused to die like livestock.

          Suddenly, Cassandra gripped her arm, wrenching her forward. For a moment, she wondered if she had been caught fidgeting, but the other woman gestured ahead.

          “That’s our route. We will cross the bridge and move toward the Temple,” she explained.

          The prisoner wrinkled her brow in thought. “The Temple?” she wondered aloud. “Of Sacred Ashes. Right, we’re in Haven, aren’t we?”

          Cassandra’s eyes widened. “Just how hard did you hit your head that you can’t remember?”

          “Harder than we both thought, I guess,” she replied.

          “Come on. We’ll cross the bridge and—”

          In that moment, the sky lashed out, striking the bridge with all the rage of the Maker and shattering it. Screams filled the air as the two women plummeted to the ice below.

          She hit the ground hard, rolling with the impact. Cassandra was already on her feet, sword and shield drawn. Beyond her, two dark shapes writhed, unlike anything she had seen in the waking world. Lidless, burning eyes leered curiously at their prey.

          “Stay behind me!”

          Frantic, the prisoner looked for anything that could be used to fight back. After a moment, her eyes found salvation: a cart had fallen in the blast, spilling its contents in the snow. A set of daggers gleamed in the green light cast by the Breach. _Awfully convenient of you, Maker,_ she thought with a smile.

         Wild mabari couldn’t have stopped her.

         With a calculated twist of her wrists, her hands pulled free of the rope, and she was moving. Scrambling over the ice, she pulled the weapons free and dove headlong into the fray.

         She was fast, she realized; faster than she thought herself capable. In the thick of the fight, she found her mind oddly at ease. Her body seemed to know just what to do, singing out its own internal battle cry. She trusted the song, flowing from one motion to the next, deftly dancing around Cassandra’s defenses to strike from the shadows. Black blood sprayed across her chest, acrid smoke rising where it struck her clothes and filling her nose.

         Just like that, the memories came flooding back. Her mother, stern and cold, taking her daggers away. The youngest of her brothers, cleverly returning them with a wink. Her father, tall and proud. Riding her horse through the woods. Being sent to the Chantry – to Haven, and a painful goodbye.

         Her name.

         And then, Cassandra was pointing her sword in her direction, shouting something she couldn’t quite make out.

         “Drop you weapon!” she repeated. “ _Now!_ ”

         The prisoner felt a low growl ripple up her throat. “Oh-ho, I don’t think so,” she snapped back. “If that’s what we’re up against, you need to trust me.” She made a show of dangling her blades away, balanced in the crook of her thumb.

         “Give me one reason to!”

         “Because my life is on the line!”

         The Nevarren visibly started at her words, but lowered her sword nonetheless. “Fair enough,” she grunted. “I can’t protect you, but you seem to do just fine. You didn’t ask for this, but I should remember that you did not attempt to run.” She rummaged in her pack, stuffing several red vials into the prisoner’s hands.

         “You’re a Seeker, aren’t you?”

         “Why?”

         “Seems my head’s clearing up. I finally remembered some things.” She pointed at the white sun painted across the other woman’s breastplate.

         The Nevarren smiled weakly. “Cassandra Pentaghast,” she offered. Then, almost as an afterthought, “If we’re going to be fighting together, I should know what to call you.”

         “Kasde,” the prisoner replied. “Kasde Trevelyan of Ostwick.”


	3. Those Who Oppose Thee

           Kasde swore explosively as searing, black blood splattered across her hand. Maker, what she would give for a pair of cheap gloves! She had managed to avoid spraying it into her own face, if barely, but the skin below her wrists sported several nasty blisters. It was hard enough to be careful flinging such short, flimsy daggers about, but the heat and adrenaline had sweat pouring out of her by the bucket, causing her grip to fumble more than once.

           Cassandra beheaded the last of their foes and tried to shake the black slime from her blade. Lifting her eyes, she made a sound close to a grunt. “We will have to find you more something more durable,” she remarked, taking in the still smoking holes in Kasde’s clothing. “Can you make do for the time being?”

           She shrugged, pressing on up the hill. “I’ve had worse.”

           A shout rang out, further ahead, and Cassandra tore past, a strangled cry on her lips. Kasde glanced tiredly at the sky. The Maker wasn’t through with her yet, it seemed.

           “What’s going on?” she called, matching the Seeker’s pace.

           Her reply was nearly swallowed by the cold wind. “Help them!” she ordered, nodding at something further up.

           Several yards ahead, the path broke off into the smoking ruins of what had likely once been a guard station or supply tower. Sounds of fighting rang across the mountainside, accompanied by a shrieking that had become all too familiar.

           Kasde rounded the broken wall, stumbling back as something large and heavy whipped past. A sickening crunch filled her ears. Against her better judgement, she looked down at the soldier’s crumpled body, dark blood oozing from the corner of his mouth.

            _Everything is coming apart._ Tight knots coiled in her gut, every nerve screaming at her to flee. Her pulse hammered in her throat. She swallowed bile and dug her feet into the snow.

            _In heart’s drumming I heard footsteps thrund’ring. Shield-brothers and spear-sisters distant raised blade to shackle-bearer…_

           A scream shook her concentration. Another soldier fell dead, tinging the dirt a muddy red with his blood. She shook her head, trying to remember the words as she stepped over his lifeless form.

            _…None to return to the lands of their mothers, by cruel magic taken…_

           She squeezed her eyes shut, even as Cassandra brushed past, nearly toppling her to the ground. Her lips moved rapidly, skipping further ahead. People were dying; lamenting their loss wouldn’t force her blade to move.

            _Those who oppose Thee shall know the wrath of Heaven._

           Her soul ignited at the words, driving her into the fray. Steel blurred in her hands, feet sidestepping blows she couldn’t have seen coming. The Chant came alive in her veins.

            _Field and forest shall burn, the seas shall rise and devour them. The wind shall tear their nations from the face of the earth, lightning shall rain down from the sky!_

Kasde tasted blood, realizing only then she had spoken aloud. A wild strike drove her back, and she rolled to avoid the second that was sure to come. A flash of green struck the ground between her knees as she righted herself, sending dust and debris into her eyes.

           A rift, she noted at last. The demons kept coming, valiant swords struggling to stem their flow. A lumbering horror sprung forth, ignoring her for the time being. With a feral snarl, she drove her blade home and twisted viciously, feeling the distinct snap of muscle. The beast collapsed, but before she could deliver the killing blow, a thick bolt pierced its skull.

           “Hurry!” a voice called, and her hand was thrust toward the glowing fissure.

           Pain ripped up her arm, like razor blades shoved beneath the skin. Her eyes fluttered closed, a silent cry on her tongue that never came.

            _They shall cry out to their false gods, and find silence._

 _Maker,_ she prayed, _don’t be silent now._

           A shower of foul-smelling water erupted from the tear as it abruptly sealed, taking the pain with it. Reeling, Kasde dropped her weapons to grind her thumb into her palm and blinked rapidly.

           Had _she_ done that?

          A young elven man moved nearer, but she retreated several steps at his approach.

          “What did you do?” she accused, rubbing her scarred hand roughly.

          His expression lightened in amusement. “I did nothing,” came his reply. He stood barefoot in the cold, dressed in little more than rags; a pack and staff slung across his back. His eyes held an unnerving amount of certainty that set Kasde’s teeth on edge. “That was your doing.”

          “This,” she said doubtfully, “can close _that?”_

          The elf inclined his bald head. “It would seem you can save us.”

          “Good to know,” a gruff voice mused from behind her.

          A dwarf, stockier than most, tugged his gloves more snugly over his hands. The constant glow from the Breach tinged the edges of his red hair with sickly green.

           A wry smile tugged at his cheeks. “Here I thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever,” he muttered, glancing up. “Varric Tethras. And before you ask, yes, _that_ Varric Tethtras.”

           Kasde straightened, still rubbing at her hand. The light glinted off the weapon strung over his shoulder. “Nice crossbow,” she smirked, eyes gleaming with mischief.

           “Bianca will keep us company in the valley,” Varric chuckled.

          Cassandra’s scowl was not easily missed. “I appreciate your help, but absolutely not.”

          “You haven’t been down there lately, have you, Seeker?” the dwarf snapped. “Things aren’t looking good. Admit it. You need me.”

          The Seeker turned away with a disgusted sound.

          “And what do I call you?” Kasde asked, turning to the elf.

          One eyebrow arched puckishly. “I’m surprised you would think to ask. My name is Solas. Does your hand trouble you?”

          She narrowed her eyes. “Not that it’s any of your business, but no,” she bit out. Something in the back of her mind told her to be careful with him.

          Varric cleared his throat. “Considering he made sure it didn’t kill you while you were passed out, you might want to rethink that.”

          Color rushed up her cheeks. “I wasn’t aware you knew so much about it. Thank you.”

          “I am—”

          “You’re a mage,” she interrupted. At his shocked expression, she wagged a finger over her own shoulder. “Staff’s a dead giveaway. Not from a Circle, by the looks of it, either.” Sighing, she canted her hip, bracing a hand against her side. “A dwarf, a Seeker, and an apostate. Sounds like the start of a bad joke.”

          “Throw in a never-ending supply of demons and a hole in the sky, you’ve got a half-decent story,” Varric deadpanned. “Look, if we’re all done with the introductions, we should get moving before more demons decide to show up.”

          “Agreed,” Cassandra called from several yards off. “We need to reach the forward camp, and it will only get harder from here.” She motioned to the path ahead, strewn with debris and broken bodies.

          Kasde retrieved her daggers, muttering under her breath, “Maker, if this is a joke, make sure the punch line’s a good one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep in mind, I may be sporadic with updates, as I'm writing this in sync with Kasde's playthrough.  
> Thanks again for reading!


	4. Things Fall Apart

          They trudged on, up the mountain, the Seeker’s shield glinting wickedly back at her companions. The smell of death and cooked flesh filled the air, and Kasde was reminded, disturbingly, that she was hungry. She slipped in the snow and ash, too distracted to mind her footing. Varric caught her by the elbow with a helpful smile.

           “Damn these boots!” she huffed.

           The dwarf laughed deeply. “They don’t teach you how to walk properly in Ostwick?”

           She stared at him blankly.

           “Accent. I’m from Kirkwall, myself.”

           “You’re awfully far from home,” Kasde remarked. “Did you…come with the Chantry?”

           “Is that a serious question?” Solas snorted, breezing past. She briefly contemplated tripping him, but manners inconveniently stayed her hand.

           Varric helped her up, brushing the filth from her knees as best he could. “I’m in the same boat as you,” he muttered. “Cassandra brought me here to do what I do best, but then…” He mimicked an explosion with his hands.

           “And Solas?”

           “Chuckles?” The dwarf shrugged. “Don’t honestly know much about him. He showed up out of nowhere, saved my ass, then demanded to see you.”

           “And Cassandra just…let him?”

           Varric sighed and adjusted Bianca on his shoulder. “The Seeker can be a bit of a hard-ass,” he admitted, “but she’s not about to risk the fate of the world just because someone didn’t ask her permission first.”

           “Fair enough. But he’s a mage.”

           “And we should punish him for that?” The dwarf shook his head. “Look, I have friends who are mages. Most of them are good people. Magic’s no more dangerous than that dagger in your hand. It’s the person using it you should worry about.”

           Kasde chewed her bottom lip, nodding thoughtfully. “Point taken.”

           “The way I see it, it doesn’t matter where we’re from. Like it or not, we’re all stuck in this mess together. Solas will do his part. Seeker, too. Hell, I’m just along for the ride.” His green eyes twinkled, boring into hers. “So, what about you?”

           “I suppose I’ll do what I can,” she replied. “I can’t close the Breach if I’m dead.”

           Varric threw his head back and barked out a laugh, slapping a hand across his knee. “You sound like Curly!”

           Before she could open her mouth to ask who he was talking about, the dwarf had already turned his back to her to plod onward up the steps. Kasde followed suit, trying to better mind her tired feet.

           Soon enough, they reached the bridge serving as both a triage center and forward camp. Women sprinted past with bandages and poultices, faces frantic. Pained groans, pleas for help, and prayers to the Maker mingled together into a desperate song, tugging at the tightly woven strings of Kasde’s heart. There weren’t enough supplies for everyone. Those who weren’t dead yet would be soon.

            _Maker, seat them beside you in death._

Heated voices dragged her attention away from the wounded. The cowled woman from the dungeon leaned over a table layered with parchments while an older man in Chantry robes shouted down her neck.

           “Haven’t you done enough already?” he snarled.

           “You’re not in command here!”

          “Enough! I will not have it!” His eyes fell upon Kasde and tightened noticeably. “Arrest her.”

          “Excuse me?” she gaped, any further words halted by Varric’s hand on her wrist.

          “As Grand Chancellor of the Chantry, I order you to take that woman to Val Royeaux to face execution!”

          Cassandra scoffed. “Order me? You’re a glorified clerk,” she hissed. “A bureaucrat.”

          The Chancellor didn’t seem cowed. “And you are a thug,” he said through clenched teeth, “but a thug who swore to serve the Chantry.”

          Kasde winced at that. Her memories of the Chantry were fond, and involved far fewer insults. The Breach had everyone at the end of their tether, it seemed.

          “We serve the Divine!” the cowled woman insisted.

          “Justinia is _dead!_ We must elect a replacement, and await _her_ orders on the matter. In the interim—”

          Suddenly, Kasde slapped her daggers down on the table. Fire rose in her belly, and she poured every ounce of it out through her eyes. “I won’t be talked about as though I’m not here!” she cried. “Look around you! People are suffering, Chancellor! _Demons_ are falling from the sky. You’d do a great deal more good comforting the faithful, rather than blame me.”

          “You shouldn’t even _be_ here!”

          “Chancellor Roderick!” the Seeker warned.

          Crossing her arms, Kasde looked him over. He was a gaunt man, perhaps forty, with gray stubble dusting his chin. Dark circles bagged beneath eyes weary with grief. All things considered, he didn’t seem a bad sort, merely exhausted and frustrated.

          “Roderick, was it?” she asked, and he nodded. “Are you in charge here?”

          “You killed everyone in charge!”

          She pinched the bridge of her nose, exhaling slowly. Nothing good would come of losing her temper now. He already thought her guilty; anger would only push him to believe it. With some effort, she schooled her face into a mask of patience and spoke gently.

          “Chancellor, I want to help,” she tried again. “I truly do, but you are making matters exceedingly difficult. Tell me how I can help – aside from slitting my throat for you – and I shall do it.”

          Roderick eyed her bitterly for several long moments before shaking his head. “Call a retreat, Seeker,” he commanded. “Our position here is lost.”

          “If I can get her to the breach,” Cassandra protested, “we could end this.”

          “Or you could die before ever reaching the Temple. You won’t make it, even with all your soldiers.”

          The cowled woman pointed up the road, toward a particularly grueling stretch cut into the rock face. “They could take the safer route,” she suggested. “Order the soldiers to charge and buy you time.”

          The Chancellor waved the notion away with a flick of his wrist. “Listen to me. Abandon this now, before more lives are lost.”

          “If we give up now, everything will be lost!” Kasde shouted.

          Roderick’s mouth clapped shut, earning a token smile from the otherwise silent woman beside him. Cassandra sized her up, eyes uncertain.

         “What do you think we should do?” she asked.

          Kasde threw her hands in the air and groaned. “Now you’re asking what _I_ think?”

          “Your hand, your call, kid,” Varric muttered quietly behind her.

          She grit her teeth, resisting the urge to rub her marked hand. If the soldiers provided adequate distraction, they just might get to the Temple unscathed, but how many lives would her safety cost? Saying a silent prayer that she might make the right decision, Kasde glanced up at the Breach.

          “I’ve never been one to skirt around danger,” she said at last. “If we fail, your trial won’t matter anyway. I say we charge, meet this head-on. Whatever happens, happens now.”

          Something close to respect shone in the Seeker’s eyes. “Then we charge,” she agreed. “Leliana.”

          The cowled woman’s head snapped up.

          “Gather everyone from the valley. Everyone.”

          Chancellor Roderick shook his head in dismay. “On your head be the consequences, Seeker,” he sneered.

          Cassandra gripped her arm, tugging them across the bridge. Solas and Varric maintained a short distance behind.

          “You may regret helping before this is over,” the Seeker whispered. “But enough of this. We must find you something more suitable before we press on. You can barely walk in those boots.”

          Leliana returned with a bundle of clothes, a new set of daggers, and a pair of soft leather boots in her arms, too fine to be standard issue, and too tall. “I’m afraid we don’t have much else to offer you,” she murmured. “These are from my personal collection. You look about the same size.”

          “It’s more than enough. Thank you.”

          Cassandra ushered her behind a wagon, keeping vigilant watch while she changed out of the oversized – and badly seared – armor.

          Perturbed by the silence, Kasde asked, “Is the Chancellor always such an ass?”

          The Seeker made a disgusted sound.

          “I’ll take that as a yes.”

          “He means well.”

          Kasde snorted dryly, shucking the outer layer of her armor. “A lot of people mean well. That doesn’t mean they go about things the right way.”

          “True.”

          The clothes proved little better than the previous set, but they were clean and dry. The dark tunic was a bit tight across her chest, forcing her to leave more ties that was strictly proper undone. She was forced to abandon the breeches, too tight to squeeze over her hips. Thankfully, the tunic was long enough to cover everything important. Tugging on the first one boot, then the other, Kasde was delighted to find they fit perfectly.

          Leliana had even thought to scrounge up a pair of gloves, albeit mismatched. The right one was a standard dueling glove, ending below the wrist to allow better movement, while the right had some type of bracer with far too many buckles. Still, it was better than dropping her daggers because they had gotten slippery. There was but one pauldron, which was better than none, so she buckled that on as well.

          With a contented sigh, she kicked her ruined armor aside and snatched up the last of her new wardrobe.

          A handkerchief.

          No, not a handkerchief. A rather _garish_ yellow silk scarf, possibly the most impractical thing to wear into battle. It was far too long to be wrapped around the neck without getting in her way. Glancing down at her legs, Kasde blushed. The tunic was quite loose at the hips, and she was not about to put her undergarments on display for the Maker and everyone. Grumbling quietly to herself about the constant, cosmic joke of which she seemed to be a part, she tied the scarf securely about her waist and cleared her throat.

          Cassandra turned with a huff, likely displeased at the concept of wasting precious time for clothes. Her eyes flew wide. Somewhere nearby, a soldier coughed.

          “The, um, pants didn’t fit,” Kasde explained weakly.

          The Seeker nodded dumbly. “You look, well—”

          “You look like a Rivaini hooker,” Varric provided from his place beside a crate of health poultices.

          Cassandra gasped loudly.

          “Thanks, Varric. That really makes me feel so much better about showing my face in public,” Kasde grumbled.

          “Can you fight in that, kid?”

          A devious glint shone in her eye. “I’ve fought in less, if that’s what you’re asking,” she replied with a smirk.

          “Maker!” Cassandra exclaimed, blushing a half-dozen shades of red. “Let’s be on our way before you say anything _else_.”

          Kasde made it several paces before realizing, with a strangled shout, that she had forgotten her weapons. She trotted back down the path and retrieved them from the cart. Suitably armed, she hurried to catch her companions, smiling sheepishly at the shocked expression on a nearby Revered Mother’s face as she rushed past.


	5. To the Temple

          The smoke grew worse the further on the company pressed. Soldiers clanked past in ash-caked armor, relaying orders as they ran. One recruit stood frozen in the snow, staring blankly at the burning remnants of a supply wagon. Two more knelt on the steps, trying to clot a spurting wound with dirty rags.

           Cassandra broke off when they reached the top. “Recruit! Where is the Commander?”

           “Just inside, Lady Cassandra,” the soldier replied, pointing through a ruined doorway. Kasde’s jaw clenched. He couldn’t have been more than seventeen, eighteen. “Another of those Maker-damned rifts appeared. We thought to pull back, but the Commander took several men with him to try and seal it.”

           “Tend to the wounded,” Cassandra ordered. “If we don’t return, retreat back to the bridge and wait for instruction.”

          Someone – or something – let out a painful wail from the other side of the wall. Loose stone and dirt scattered in the wake of a Fade-green bolt of light, and Kasde moved. She barely heard Varric’s distress as she plunged her knives into a demon’s eyes.

          Terrors ran rampant in the broken courtyard, disappearing only to reappear at an unsuspecting soldier’s back, claws twitching at the prospect of rending flesh. One of them charged her, but she ducked beneath its lumbering grasp and slashed at anything in reach.

          “Fall back!” a clarion voice called above the chaos. A loud clang sounded in Kasde’s ears, and she turned, just barely avoiding a blow to the face.

          “Commander!”

          Following the Seeker’s gaze, she found him, holding a small pack of demons at bay. The right side of his face and tabard were splattered with dark blood and grime, in stark contrast with the golden hair falling into his eyes. From that position, he created an mortal barrier between the rift and his men. He hefted his shield, a bit too late, and was forcibly sent reeling. It clattered to the ground, too far from reach to risk retrieving. Teeth bared, he shifted his stance, gripping his sword with both hands.

          “Fall back!” he repeated, and lunged forward.

          Kasde took off running, dipping and weaving between bodies as she cleared the battlefield. A horror emerged from a black puddle of filth, effectively blocking her path. It raised one of its four arms to strike, but she hadn’t the time or willpower to stop.

          Grunting from the effort, she dropped her weight back and let her own momentum carry her on. Bits of gravel and bone scraped against her exposed legs as she slid across the ground, overshooting her target by several feet. Panicked, she scrambled, relief washing over her when she felt cold metal under her hands.

          And then, it was upon her, dripping jowls and gnashing teeth bearing down into her face. She kicked out once, twice, trying to put some distance between her and whatever wanted her dead. The heel of her boot struck something solid, and the creature reeled, screeching horribly as her dagger opened its chest cavity in a wash of smoking blood.

          Varric took notice of the opening and fired a well-aimed bolt between its eyes. “Nice work, kid!” he hollered, reloading.

          Kasde nodded and ambled to her feet. The Commander was faring well enough without his shield, but the rift continued to spout demons, and she needed him alive. She whistled sharply, catching his attention before hurling it in his direction.

          He smiled at her.

          Suddenly, Solas was at her side, tugging her toward the rift. “Close it!” he instructed, taking position to defend her.

          “How?!” she cried, incredulous. She had only done it the once! That didn’t make her an expert by any means.

          The elf growled, seizing her hand. “Use it!” he shouted. “ _Tell_ it to close.”

          She wasn’t certain what, exactly, that meant, but dithering on about it would only make matters worse. Thrusting her hand toward the fissure, she waited for the telltale pain tearing up her arm, and prayed.

 _Maker, if this be Your will, help me now._ A sharp tingle crept through her fingers. _Help me save them!_

          The rift latched onto her hand, tugging Kasde momentarily off balance. The energy pulsed viciously, sucking her in and struggling to free itself at the same time. Death-shrieks rang in her ears, forcing her to her knees. Fetid water sloshed from the rift as it closed, splashing thickly in the dust. Free of its pull, she covered her ears with a pained groan.

           A firm hand slapped her across the back. Varric grinned down at her, offering his hand. She accepted gratefully, swiping at her clothes as she stood.

           “How many rifts are there?” the dwarf wondered with a shake of his head.

           Solas shrugged dismissively. “What matters is she closed it. The rift is sealed, just as before.”

           Loud footsteps padded by as the Commander strode past. He swiped the hair from his eyes with one large hand, gripping Cassandra’s firmly with the other. “You managed to close the rift,” he remarked. “Well done.”

           “Thank _her_ ,” the Seeker said pointedly, nodding over his shoulder.

           His amber eyes were intense, hard and judging as they raked up and down Kasde’s slender frame. “I hope they’re right about you,” he grumbled. “We’ve lost a lot of people getting you here.”

           “You and me both,” Kasde sighed, trying to shake the lingering pain from her hand.

           A small frown pulled at his lips. “I suppose we’ll see soon enough. The path ahead is clear. Sister Leliana is waiting for you there.”

           “Can you give us more time?” Cassandra asked.

           “We can try,” the Commander said, and moved toward one of his men, who was struggling to stand. “Maker watch over you – for all our sakes.”

           “You as well, Commander.”

           Something about her statement must have struck him as incredibly odd, if the curious lift of his brow was any indicator. He watched her a moment longer, as if one moment could tell him everything he needed to know about the strange woman who could seal rifts with her hand. Whether he found what he was after, Kasde couldn’t say. Without further words, he shouldered his comrade’s weight and hobbled out of the courtyard.


	6. Transfigurations

          It was difficult to bear what had befallen the holiest of places. Once home to the earthly remains of the Maker’s Bride, the Temple of Sacred Ashes was now little more than a mass grave. Great red spires of jagged crystal shot toward the sky, painting the stone with their eerie glow. Corpses – too many to count – littered the ground, faces lifted to the Maker; mouths screaming at the heavens. Thunder rolled overhead. In their hour of need, He had not come. If the Maker could not save them, Kasde thought, what hope was there for the rest of mankind?

           Cassandra led the way, eyes fixed ahead. She picked through the rubble as though she had done so a dozen times. Given the circumstances, it seemed likely.

           “How did I survive this?” Kasde asked, toeing a shard of charred bone from her path.

           “You don’t remember?”

           “I already told you that,” she snapped.

           “Our scouts found you, unconscious in the crater. They said you…stepped out of a rift, and a woman was behind you. No one knows who she was.” The Seeker sighed heavily. “Everything was laid to waste, except you.”

           Kasde’s face fell.

           “Don’t think too much on it, kid,” Varric suggested, patting her on the back.

           “You made it!”

           Leliana trotted up to them, bow in hand. For a ‘sister’, she had an interesting hobby. Cassandra stared down into the wreckage, idly forming a plan of action with her counterpart.

           “Have your men take up positions around the exterior,” she ordered. “The prisoner will handle the Breach.”

           “I will?” Kasde glanced skyward, watching rubble tumble precariously through the air above them. “I’m not sure how you expect me to get up there,” she remarked. “Fly?”

           “The rift,” Solas said, pointing with his staff. “This was the first, and it is key. If you seal it, perhaps we seal the Breach as well.”

           “Let’s get this over with then, shall we?” With a roll of her shoulders, Kasde began the descent into the ruined temple.

           The red crystal crept like a parasite through the rock, emitting the occasional spark. Being near it set her blood ablaze, head swimming wildly. Her stomach lurched.

           A hard hand yanked her away, and the confusion passed.

           Varric stared up at her with eyes gone wide and white, skin pale. “Red lyrium,” he hissed, just barely above a whisper. “Don’t touch it.”

           “That was my first thought.”

           “Seeker, what’s it _doing_ here?”

           Cassandra shook her head and shrugged.

          “Perhaps magic from the Breach drew upon lyrium beneath the Temple,” Solas offered. “It could have been corrupted.”

           The dwarf shuddered violently. “Don’t touch it,” he repeated. “It’s evil.”

           They kept on, winding their way deeper. With each step, Kasde felt watched. It wasn’t a feeling she could place, unlike that of human eyes. Her jaw clenched painfully, and she refused to look at the Breach again, in case _it_ was the one watching.

            _“Now is the hour of our victory. Bring forth the sacrifice.”_

           No one moved.

           “Solas?” Cassandra asked, fear coating her words.

           “I am…not certain. The Veil is extremely thin here.”

           Kasde slipped down over the ledge and into the pit. Something cracked under her weight and she stumbled back, very nearly flattening Varric in her haste. She kicked the skull with the toe of her boot, shaking the broken fragments loose. One intact socket stared back at her, almost asking, ‘why?’

            _“Keep the sacrifice still.”_

_“Someone! Help me!”_

Cassandra’s eyes flew wide. “That was Divine Justinia’s voice!”

           The mark flared to life, snapping and popping angrily. Kasde gripped her hand and willed it to calm, silently muttering any prayer she thought might help. The pain only worsened, creeping up the length of her arm until her pulse beat mercilessly behind her eyes.

          With a scream, she collapsed in the dust, writhing and cursing. Light blared across her eyelids. She stood outside the council chambers, twisting her fingers anxiously. No sound had come from within for some time. Suddenly, a cry startled her into action.

_No,_ she thought, _this already happened._

          Somewhere, a door opened.

          “What’s going on here?”

_That’s…my voice,_ she realized through the haze of her pain.

          Divine Justinia, her robes shredded and torn, floated at the center of the chamber, arms held wide by some manner of magical binding. A ghastly, black figure circled her suspended form, oblivious to the intrusion. As she struggled to free herself, her eyes fell upon Kasde.

          “Run while you can!” she cried. “Warn them!”

          The shade whirled abruptly, swiping an angry arm through the air. _“We have an intruder,”_ it called, voice echoing through Kasde’s already rattling skull. _“Kill her. Now.”_

          Suddenly, Varric was shaking her, shouting something incomprehensible in her face. She pushed him away, fighting down the bile rising in her throat. Coughing, she rolled to her knees.

          “Andraste’s ass!” she exclaimed. “What is going on?”

          Cassandra hauled her bodily to her feet, shaking her violently, which did little in the way of help. “You tell me! The Divine called out to you! Is she…?”

          “I don’t know!” Kasde yelled, tearing herself loose. “I don’t… I don’t remember.”

          “The Fade bleeds into our world. These are likely echoes of what happened here.” Solas gave the Seeker a sympathetic glance. “Your Divine is more than likely dead, Seeker.”

          “I cannot accept that.”

          The elf shook his head and turned toward the rift with a loud sigh. “This rift is closed,” he informed them, “but only temporarily. We must open it, so that it can be properly sealed.”

          Kasde popped the muscles in her neck and sauntered forward. “No sense waiting then,” she muttered, lifting her hand.

          Solas caught her hand. “Opening the rift will attract attention from the other side.”

          “That means demons!” Cassandra bellowed, and the sound of arrows being nocked ricocheted through the crater. She nodded in Kasde’s direction. Hefting her shield, she moved closer to the rift, expression grim.

          Releasing his grip on her wrist, Solas moved to give her ample room. This time, it was different. Thrusting her hand toward the rift, Kasde willed it to open. The energy latched on, but rather than sapping her strength, it instead coursed into the mark on her palm, growing steadily in temperature until she feared her skin would cook right off the bone. With a loud crack, the tether snapped. The feedback jarred her teeth, roughly pitching her outstretched arm back.

          Sinister laughter filled the air, only moments before the rift exploded in a wash of green light, and a lumbering, black shape sprang forth.

          “Now!” Cassandra called, launching herself at the demon’s exposed flank. Arrows whipped past, bouncing uselessly off its armored hide. Even the spells flying from Solas’s staff did nothing to slow its advance.

          Kasde struck out wildly, recoiling with a yelp as her blade shattered like glass. Testing her fingers, she dove toward the rift, finding the link and holding firm.

          “Kid! What are you doing?” Varric hollered, jumping back, just as a lash of purple lightning smashed into the stone beside his head.

          She ignored him, pulling the energy taught with sheer force of will. If she could seal the rift, there was a chance the demon would be sucked back in, or at the very least, be weakened enough to kill. Try as she might, the fissure refused to close, drawing more and more power from her each passing second. She was simply too tired, physically and mentally exhausted from all she had endured. Closing her eyes, she whispered the first words that came to mind.

          “For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water… The Veil holds no uncertainty for her, and she will know no fear of death!”

          Pain exploded behind her eyes and she cried out, unable to finish the verse. Blinking rapidly, she felt herself fall for what seemed forever. The ground never rose to meet her, and she never felt its unyielding embrace. Her sight went dark, and she heard no more.

_For the Maker shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword…_


	7. Spark

          _“Wake up, tulip. Time for another adventure.”_

Kasde’s eyes snapped open. Sunlight streaked across her eyes from some open window. Tiny specs of dust danced through the air before her eyes, and she momentarily forgot the cold and snow. She inhaled deeply, catching the heady scent of flowers. Hinges squeaked, and she pushed herself up.

          Someone had put her to bed. The sheets were threadbare, but warm. She shook her head. How long had she slept? Her last thought, pain scorching through her veins, from fingertips to eyeballs, flickered through her memory. Cradling her head in one hand, she flexed and curled the fingers of the other. Everything seemed to be in working fashion, for she felt no lingering pain.

          A sudden, loud crash, accompanied by a startled gasp, jarred her focus. She looked up, too fast. Her vision swam, and she blinked rapidly.

          “I didn’t know you were awake, I swear!”

          An elven girl, no more than fourteen by her guess, dropped to her knees, hiding her face as she bowed. The small crate she had been carrying lay on the floor nearby, its contents spilled out. The sight left a bitter taste in Kasde’s mouth.

          She struggled to stand, then thought better of it. Her strength had yet to return. “Please,” she croaked, voice hoarse from lack of use – or perhaps screaming. “You needn’t be afraid of me.”

          “That’s wrong isn’t it?” the elven girl squeaked. “I said the wrong thing. Forgive me, mistress! I am your humble servant!”

          Kasde’s lip curled in disgust. “I’d never dare to think of someone else as property. Please, get up. I won’t hurt you.”

          “Mistress?”

          The poor girl seemed distressed, unsure what course of action to take. Eventually, she stood, and bowed awkwardly.

          “Where am I?” Kasde asked, rubbing her head.

          “Back in Haven, milady. You _saved_ us.”

          “I did… Wait, what?”

          The elf nodded excitedly. “You went into the ruins, and the Breach stopped growing, just like the mark on your hand!”

          Kasde glanced down, twisting her hand this way and that. Truly, the mark was no larger than she last saw it, barely reaching around her thumb.

          “It’s all anyone’s talked about for three days!”

          “Wha—hold on. _Three days?_ ” She shook her head bewilderedly. “Then, you mean to say…they’re happy with me?”

          The elf stumbled back. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I’m only saying what I heard, milady.” After a moment spent wringing her slender hands, she said, “I’m sure Seeker Cassandra will want to know you’ve awakened. She said, ‘at once’!”

          That got Kasde’s attention. “Cassandra?”

          The girl nodded.

          “Where is she now?”

          “In the Chantry, milady, with the Lord Chancellor. ‘At once,’ she said!” the servant prattled, only to dart out the door without so much as a farewell.

         Carefully, and much more slowly, Kasde rose to her feet. She was still dressed in the same clothes Leliana had given her, though they smelled as though someone had washed them. Her boots lay propped against a bookcase in the corner. A rather angry-looking crow sat in a gilded cage on the floor.

         She inspected the supplies the elven girl had brought: elfroot and salves. Quickly popping one of the leaves into her mouth, she set to investigating her surroundings.

         The cabin was sparsely furnished, with little to give any inkling of her current situation. Someone had brought fresh flowers, bright yellow petals shining from a vase near the window. A stack of parchments lay scattered across the desk, written in some strange code. One page was legible, written in a hasty hand.

—Day One—

Clammy. Shallow breathing. Pulse over-fast. Not responsive. Pupils dilated.

Mage says her scarring “mark” is thrumming with unknown magic.

Wish we could station a Templar in here, just in case.

~~—~~

         Kasde lifted her hand. Nothing about it felt magical, but it could close rifts, so she supposed it could be. The thought made her terribly uneasy, recalling the stories of mages in Circles, and how magic seemed to rule one’s life. If the mark _was_ magic, would they send her away? Lock her in a Circle somewhere? She shuddered violently.

         The elfroot quickly lost its flavor, and she spat it into the empty chamber pot. Raw elfroot never worked quite as well as potion, but it rejuvenated her in a pinch. Her head felt steady on her shoulders, and any aches had fled her body. Tugging on her boots, she made for the door.

         When Kasde thought of the Prophet Andraste, she often saw her clad in white, standing before a gathering of the faithful, their arms reaching out to her.

         She hadn’t, however, expected to see them gathered outside her door.

         “That’s her,” someone whispered. “The Herald of Andraste.”

         Swallowing a sudden lump in her throat, she moved through the crowd. It was impossible to say how many had gathered, but she could make out the tops of heads as far back as the tavern. They did not move to touch her, to her extreme relief. None begged her blessing. Mostly, they watched, eyes wide and sparkling with a mixture of fear and adoration. Many of the soldiers saluted as she passed.

         Even as her blood pounded in her ears, she caught bits and pieces of scattered talk.

         “They say she walked out of the Fade, and Andraste herself was watching over her!”

         A woman scoffed nearby. “Why did the Seeker have her in chains? I thought they knew everything.”

         “We were all frightened,” a man chided. “It’s complicated.”

         “It’s not complicated. Andraste herself blessed her!”

         Blessings upon you, Herald.

         Maker watch over you, Herald.

         Walk safely, Herald of Andraste.

         Herald.

         Herald.

_Andraste._

         The Chantry door banged shut behind her, and she leaned back against it, trying to catch her breath. She’d died trying to seal the Breach – must have – and landed in some bizarre afterlife. She shook her head.

         From the corner of her eye, Andraste peered down at her over the flaming basin in her outstretched hands. A cold chill trickled down Kasde’s spine, and she pushed away from the door. It was all she could do to put as much distance between herself and the Prophet’s likeness as she could without breaking into a panicked run.

         “Chancellor Roderick says the Chantry has abandoned us,” she heard a lay sister mutter.

         “That is not for the Chancellor to decide.”

         “Most of the Grand Clerics died at the Conclave. Who will lead us now?”

         One of the sisters snorted quietly. “Andraste didn’t have Grand Clerics telling her what to do. She managed, nevertheless.”

         “You expect us to be like Andraste?”

         Their eyes turned to Kasde in unison.

         “Someone has to be.”

         Go in peace, Herald of Andraste.

         Maker’s blessing, Herald.

         Herald.

_Herald._

         As she neared the council chamber, raised voices could be heard on the other side of the door. Kasde slowed, her steps, listening carefully.

         “Have you gone _completely_ mad?” Roderick’s voice demanded. “She should be taken to Val Royeaux immediately, to be tried by whoever becomes the next Divine.”

         “I do not believe she is guilty.” Cassandra’s voice.

         “She failed, Seeker! The Breach still looms above us. For all you know,” he said lowly, “she intended it this way.”

         Kasde glanced to her left. An open door led downstairs, to the cell in which she had been held. Her mouth went dry.

         “I do not believe that.”

         “That is not for you to decide! Your duty is to serve the Chantry.”

         “My duty is to serve the principles on which it was founded, Chancellor. You would do well to remember that.”

         She had heard enough.

         Kasde flung the door wide, sending the soldiers on guard into a state of alarmed confusion. Leliana stood between Cassandra and the Chancellor; mediating or merely observing, she could not say.

         Roderick pointed an angry finger in her direction. “Chain her!” he ordered. “I want her prepared for travel to the capital.”

         The guards exchanged uncertain glances.

         “Disregard that order,” Cassandra growled, “and leave us.”

         Saluting, they seemed more than relieved at the dismissal. The situation was complicated enough without people referring to her as the _Herald of bloody Andraste_. Once the door shut behind them, Roderick shook his head.

         “Careful how you tread from here, Seeker,” he warned.

         Cassandra crossed her arms, leveling her gaze on the man across the table. “The Breach is the true threat. Ignore it if you wish, but I will not.”

         “Let me guess,” Kasde interjected, propping one foot against the wall and leaning back. “You need my help again.” She scowled darkly. “Wasn’t once enough? What more can I do to prove that I had nothing to do with this?”

         “You have done plenty!” Roderick bellowed. “Your actions will be taken into account at your trial, but Maker help me if I let you roam free!”

         The Seeker’s voice came then, quiet and dangerous. “Have a care, Chancellor. We have enough threats to worry about without you scaring off our only means of sealing the rifts.”

         Leliana moved forward to separate the two, casting Kasde a sympathetic gaze. “Someone is responsible for what happened. Someone Divine Justinia did not expect. Perhaps they died in the explosion,” she said, shrugging idly. “Or perhaps they have allies who survived.”

         The Chancellor’s face reddened. He shook his head, incensed. “Now _I_ am a suspect?”

         “You,” Leliana confirmed, “and others.”

         “But not the prisoner?”

         Cassandra paced between the door and the table. “I heard the voices in the crater,” she mused. “Divine Justinia called out to her for help. If _she_ trusted the prisoner, I, too, rest my faith in her.”

         “So, that thing on her hand is mere coincidence, then?” Roderick mocked. He was either very frightened, or extraordinarily nervous.

         “Providence. The Maker sent her to us in our time of need.”

         “Whoa, whoa. Okay.”

         Kasde pushed off the wall, waving her hands in front of her. The other three turned to look at her, faces twisted into varying stages of confusion.

         “I can seal the rifts, but I am not holy,” she barked. “I don’t know what happened to me, or how I survived the blast. Calling me Maker-sent?” She swallowed thickly. “Herald? That’s not helping anything. You’re just scaring people.”

         Cassandra’s eyes softened. “We are all subject to the Maker’s will, willing or otherwise.”

         “Yes, and I sing the Chant every night before bed, Seeker,” Kasde argued. “That doesn’t make me any more holy. This is just…” Her shoulders drooped and she sighed. “…dumb luck.”

         “Even you cannot deny that the Maker’s hand is at work,” the Seeker insisted. “Whether you believe it or not, you are exactly what we needed, when we needed it most.”

         Kasde made a quiet, disagreeable sound. “Yesterday, you wanted me dead. Today, I’m your savior.”

         “I can, on occasion, be wrong.”

         Turning on her heel, Kasde took a moment to collect herself. What they said was true, but something about it struck a dissonant chord within her. Never in her wild dreamings had she ever considered herself special – certainly not remotely near the level of Andraste. Surely, there had been many more qualified at the Conclave.

         Surely, He had meant to choose someone else.

         She laughed dryly, only once, running her tongue over her teeth. “Though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide, eh?”

         Cassandra nodded. “We lost everything…then, you came.”

         Her point made, the Seeker moved toward a chest on the opposite end of the room. No small feat, as Chancellor Roderick’s eyes burned after her, tracking her every step.

         Time, and reason, it seemed, did little to quell the fire of his rage.

         “The Breach is still a threat,” Leliana reminded. “Your mark is our only hope of closing it.”

         “That is not for you to decide!”

         With a dull thud, Cassandra returned, depositing the spoils of her short walk onto the table without preamble. Roderick jumped back, visibly startled by her return.

         Or perhaps, it was the flaming eye emblazoned across the tome’s cover.

         “You know what this is,” Cassandra said. “A writ from Divine Justinia, granting us authority to act, should you not. As of this moment, I declare the Inquisition reborn.”

         At her words, Roderick took several steps back, but she did not relent. Cassandra continued to bear down on him, eyes gleaming with determination. Kasde couldn’t do much in the way of hiding the smirk tugging across her lips, and resigned to leaning against the wall once more to watch.

         “We will seal the Breach,” the Seeker went on, “find those responsible, and restore order. _With or without_ your approval.”

         An image of her younger self, sullen and red-faced, sprang into Kasde’s head. Her mother tried telling her that ‘little girls’ didn’t fight. Oh, how she had screamed. By the time someone managed to quiet her, she had already said a fair amount of what _she_ thought of little girls. She had wrenched her tiny daggers from her mother’s wretched, grasping fingers, insisting that only the Holy Maker himself could keep them from her.

_No one can take the sky from me._

         When she managed to shake herself from her reverie, Chancellor Roderick was well and thoroughly gone. Not surprising, considering Cassandra had told him where to stick his opinion on matters.

         Shamefaced, the Seeker paced the floor. Leliana’s gentle voice attempted to soothe her, but only seemed to agitate the Nevarren further.

         “We aren’t ready,” she lamented. “We’ve no leader, no numbers, and now, no support from the Chantry.”

         Cassandra halted her steps and turned pleading eyes to her once-prisoner. “We have no choice,” she whispered. “Will you help us?”

         Kasde balked. She had expected a cell, a headman’s block; not a desperate plea.

         “The Chantry will take time to elect a new Divine,” Leliana explained, her voice tinged with anger. “They will wait for her instruction, while countless lives are lost. _We_ cannot wait.”

         “What makes you think I can make a difference?” The words tasted like ash on her tongue.

         Cassandra grinned. “Because you doubt. Your faith guides you, but it does not reign over you. As to whether this cause is holy… That depends on what we find.”

         Tugging at the hem of her tunic, Kasde bobbed her head considerately. “And if I refuse?”

         Leliana motioned to the door. “You can go if you wish,” she allowed. “But you should know that some still think you guilty. Should you leave, we cannot protect you.”

         “The path we ask you to walk will not be easy,” Cassandra added, “but you cannot say this has not changed you.”

         In the narrow span of seconds, Kasde let everything sink in. Ostwick was far and away, and even if she ran, they would likely turn her out, rather than risk the Chantry’s wrath. Starting over was her best option, but too many had already seen her face; identified her as the Herald of Andraste. The chances of going unrecognized for any length of time seemed slimmer than was strictly desirable. In truth, she knew from the start she had but the one choice.

         She merely prayed it be the right one.

         Straightening from the wall, Kasde approached the table to stare into the Seeker’s brown eyes. A wild thrill coursed through her body, her every muscle ready to spring.

         “When I woke up, I expected to be dead,” she remarked, glancing sidelong at the Divine’s writ. “Rather, I expected to not wake up at all.” She took a steadying breath. “If you truly mean to restore order, I cannot stand idly by. I will put my faith in your cause.”

         It should have bothered her that her hand stayed steady as she reached for Cassandra’s.

         “See that you earn it, Seeker.”

         Ravens departed for all corners of Thedas within the hour. Requisitions began pouring in. Forges were fired, and hammers clanged long into the night. Proclamations were posted, banners hung. Through it all, a victim of circumstance, flung from the Fade, saw the first flickerings of a mighty flame begin to spark.


	8. Snow

           She hated snow. It crept in under doors and through the cracks in windows, through boot soles to soak her socks. Wet snow left a perpetual chill in the air that stuck within the bones. The air stung her nose, scraping at her throat when she tried breathing through her mouth instead. Frost clung to the tips of her lashes, and her eyes felt dry and itchy. Grumbling, she kicked a small snow pile in her path.

           She _hated_ snow.

           Haven was cozy enough, if not a bit claustrophobic for her taste. The quaint little town served its purpose dutifully, but refugees and pilgrims alike poured in almost daily. Blankets were already becoming a problem. Soon, there wouldn’t be enough food to go around. Oddly enough, no one seemed bothered, turning bright eyes and hopeful faces up as she made her rounds.

           Herald.

           Brushing a few stray wisps of hair from her face, she kicked another pile of snow. Flakes sprayed into the air, tumbling softly back to the ground. _Herald_. She hated the word, almost as much as the blighted snow. It was a mantle thrust upon her, not one she would have asked for. No one in their right mind would ask for it. But she was the Herald, and for the peoples’ sake, she would bear its weight. Her throat tightened. It was chains about her wrists, a cross upon her back…

           A noose.

            _Maker, Andraste,_ someone, she prayed, sending another cloud of snow into the air, _tell me what I should do._

“Not fond of snow, Lady Trevelyan?”

           Kasde jumped at the voice, and turned to see the Commander brushing snow from the fur about his shoulders.

          “Commander! I’m so sorry!” she gasped, cheeks reddening. “I swear, I didn’t know you were there.”

          He made an amused sound and continued shaking snow from his cloak. “I believe you,” he said. “You looked about a mile away in there.”

          She smiled sheepishly. “I was just…thinking.”

          “About snow?”

          “No, I hate snow,” she replied, screwing up her face. “It never snowed much in Ostwick.”

          He nodded. “I do recall the Free Marches being unusually warm,” he mused.

          Kasde shrugged, a small laugh escaping her. “It rained.”

          “I suppose you dislike rain as well, then.”

          His lip curled into the smallest of smiles, and she noticed for the first time the deep scar that crossed his upper lip. Someone had done a poor job of healing it, or some oaf with a needle had bungled the job. Still, it added a touch of rugged masculinity to his otherwise handsome face.

          “Quite the opposite,” she said at last, turning to cover her blush, and continued down the road. “I liked the mud.”

          The Commander arched his brow curiously. “Truly?”

          “Mud was my favorite. I used to push my sisters into it.” She grinned impishly.

          He coughed in surprise. “I’m not certain that was—”

          “Polite?” She shrugged again. “My mother used to say as much. I never really cared for being polite. It always felt…dishonest.”

          “How so?”

          Kasde stopped, turning to face him fully. “Well,” she said thoughtfully. Putting it into words always proved a challenge. Try as she might, something always came out wrong. “If I dislike someone, I feel I should be able to tell them so. Likewise, if they dislike me, I would prefer they tell me so. Faking niceties for propriety’s sake just makes me hate people more. Perhaps because I’m forced to _pretend_ I don’t.”

          His laugh rumbled quietly. “I quite agree, Herald.”

          “You do?”

          He nodded. “I am a soldier. I have the luxury of being able to look my enemy in the eye. When it comes to politics… Well, I suppose I feel a bit out of place.”

           “We can be out of place together, then!” she giggled, gently rapping against his chestplate.

           The Commander’s cheeks reddened, and he lifted a hand to rub at the back of his neck. “Y-yes, of course. I-I mean, if that is what you wish, Herald.”

           Kasde struggled not to cringe at the title.

           He cleared his throat. “Back to more pressing matters,” he said grudgingly, “you are needed at the Chantry.”

           “Not again,” she groaned. “Can’t I just, I don’t know, practice on the dummies? If Cassandra hasn’t destroyed them all, that is.”

           “Lady Cassandra sent me to fetch you,” he chuckled. “She awaits you in the war room, Herald.”

           With a loud sigh, she hung her head. Herald. Her lip quirked upward the slightest bit. It didn’t sound so horrible when he said it. There was no pressure, no impossible expectations, hanging on his words. When _he_ called her Herald, she felt safe.

She flailed her hand in defeat. “Very well, Commander,” she said. “Take me to them.”

           He smiled at her again. “Best to get it over with,” he advised. “Like treating a wound.”

           “Wounds heal. Politics make me wish I’d stayed in the Fade.”

She liked his laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to churn these out in a somewhat quick fashion. My birthday is in a couple weeks, and I'm working on having In Hushed Whispers up in time. So be expecting a BIG chapter.


	9. To the Void with Politics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really struggled to write this chapter, simply because all the political meandering drives me crazy. I'm a bit like Kasde in the sense that I really can't stand grandstanding or roundabout conversations. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy it, and I promise the next chapters will be better!

           As she followed the Commander into the Chantry, raised voices caught Kasde’s attention. Land disputes? Now of all times? The Commander sighed heavily and rolled his eyes.

           “Best to let Josephine handle it, Herald,” he grumbled.

           She frowned at the name. No one had introduced her to any such person. The raised voices continued through the closed door, rankling her further. The Commander’s golden eyes flicked between her and the door, as if wondering whether he should haul her off before the situation escalated. She did her best to smile through pinched lips, and kindly ignored him.

           “Herald!”

           “I will meet you in the war room, Commander,” she called over her shoulder. “Go on. I’ll be fine.”

           Josephine was a slight, short woman with dark skin and even darker hair. She held a stack of papers in one arm, a quill in the other. The tightness to her eyes said the conversation had already been going for some time.

           “You cannot remain here, if you can’t prove the Inquisition was founded on Justinia’s orders.”

           Kasde’s lip curled before she could school her expression. Orlesians. He wasn’t a man of particularly high standing, judging by the worn and chipped paint at the edges of his mask. Likely, he was flexing his muscles for one reason or the other.

           “This is an inopportune time, Marquis,” Josephine pleaded. A thick, Antivan accent softened the harsh edges of her words. “More of the faithful flock here each day.” Her eyes caught movement. “Allow me to introduce you to the brave soul who risked life and limb to slow the Breach.”

           Kasde inclined her head, refusing to bow.

           “This is the Marquis DuRellion, one of the late Divine Justinia’s staunchest supporters.”

           The Marquis shook his head and moved into Josephine’s space. “And the rightful owner of Haven! We lent Justinia these lands for a pilgrimage. I am sorry, Ambassador, but your organization is not a beneficiary of that arrangement.”

           Kasde stepped between the two, forcing the Marquis back a step. “People have been injured,” she insisted. “You would turn them out into the snow? They’ll die.”

           “Who will benefit if they stay?” he demanded.

           “Divine Justinia, Marquis. The Inquisition is sheltering those who mourn her, not the Chantry,” Josephine explained, making a note in one of the documents she held.

           The mask covered any falter in the Marquis’s expression, but his eyes flickered with doubt. “Why does the Chantry ignore the faithful?”

           “They remain in shock.”

           Kasde smiled. It was a far more diplomatic answer than she would have given. She was beginning to understand the Commander’s advice to leave the matter be. Josephine was quite capable.

           “Haven is still the DuRellions’ rightful property!”

           “Demons are pouring from the sky, and your biggest concern is a _land claim?_ ”

           Josephine placed a warning hand on the Herald’s shoulder. “Has Empress Celene officially acknowledged your possession of Haven?”

           The Marquis deflated visibly. “The empress…has not yet had the opportunity.”

           Josephine’s expression softened. “We all face dark times, Your Grace. Divine Justinia would not want her passing to divide the people. She would, in fact, trust us to forge new alliances to the betterment of all, no matter how strange they might seem.”

           “I will think on it, Lady Montilyet,” Marquis DuRellion sighed. “The Inquisition…might stay in the meanwhile.” With a respectful bow, he left the room.

           Once the door closed, the Antivan loosed a loud snarl.

          Josephine turned to deposit her paperwork on the large desk across the room, muttering heatedly to herself. _“¡Qué fastidio!_ ” She slapped down her quill and massaged her temples. “ _Me corres por la puente._ ”

          Kasde crossed her arms and leaned against the wall, observing quietly.

          “I regret you had to see that, Herald,” Josephine said at last. “The Marquis has been a bit…tiresome of late. I’m afraid he is the reason we have yet to be properly introduced.”

          “I apologize for barging in. Things sounded rather…intense from outside.”

          Josephine smiled warmly. “Not at all, Lady Herald. Your presence did little harm, and this served as good practice for the debates to come.”

          “You expect more of this?” Kasde asked, stomach plummeting.

          “Certainly. Each visitor will spread the story of the Inquisition once they depart. As your ambassador, it is my duty to ensure the tale is as complimentary as possible.”

          “I can appreciate that.” She offered her hand. “Kasde Trevelyan.”

          Josephine took her hand, if a bit uncomfortable with such an informal gesture. “A pleasure. Leliana approached me with the task of acting as the Inquisition’s chief diplomat. It is…turning out to be more interesting than I anticipated.”

          “I’m glad to have you here,” Kasde admitted. “The less I have to deal with bickering nobles, the better.”

          “It is…an acquired taste, I’m afraid. I served as royally appointed ambassador from Antiva to Orlais,” Josephine explained. “The nobility of Thedas is a rather singular sphere. I know everyone, either personally or from reputation.”

          “Have you had much interaction with my family?”

          Josephine shook her head. “Sadly, there was little opportunity to meet them. I have heard of them, although not much. The Trevelyans seem to keep to themselves.”

          “Then you should consider yourself lucky,” Kasde said.

          The ambassador frowned, though not unkindly. There was a sad notion of sympathy in her expression, as though she understood to a degree. With a delicate sweep of her hand, she opened the door and gestured for the Herald to follow.

          “Personal feelings aside, we must deal with them eventually,” she went on. “The Inquisition’s rebirth has created quite the stir, and you are central to it. It will only be a matter of time before word reaches their ears.”

          Kasde grumbled to herself. “Best hope that happens later, rather than sooner.”

          Josephine smiled patiently. “Be that as it may, we have more pressing matters to attend to. After you, Herald.” She opened the door to the council chambers, bowing perfectly.

          Kasde felt her stomach lurch.

          Cassandra and Leliana stood at one end of the table, quietly discussing one matter or another. The Commander paced restlessly on the other side of the room, his large hands wrapped around the hilt of his sword. A large map of Orlais had been draped across one half of the table, a map of Ferelden the other. Various items – books, statuettes, a tankard – held the corners down.

          “Good,” Cassandra remarked, “you’re here. We can get started.”

          Kasde made a noncommittal sound and stared at the maps.

          “Has the Marquis been wrangled?”

          “Yes, Commander. Although it would have been easier, had you not agitated the man so.”

          “The Marquis had little ground to stand on, Josie,” Leliana interjected. “I’m sure nothing the Commander said or did made too much difference.”

          The man in question growled lowly, but remained otherwise silent.

          Across the table, Cassandra gave the ambassador a withering glare. Josephine cleared her throat, smoothing the layers of her highly impractical garb.

          “You have already met Leliana, and apparently, our ambassador,” the Seeker began. “Commander Cullen you met on the battlefield.”

          He nodded. “Only briefly, but the Herald proved more than capable.”

          Kasde eyed him curiously. Cullen. The name suited him, strong and Ferelden, with a softness to its sharp edges. It was steel wrapped in a warm blanket.

          “My Lady?”

          Her head snapped up so sharply it popped. The Commander – Cullen – watched her, concern wrinkling his brow. Had he been talking? Had she been staring? Cheeks reddening, she fumbled for a believable excuse.

          “Sorry,” she said lamely, and internally cursed her stupidity. “I’m still a bit distractible, I’m afraid.”

          He frowned. “Be sure to get some rest then,” he advised. “You’ve been through much these past few days.”

          “Does your hand trouble you?” Cassandra asked.

          Kasde glanced down at the scarred whorl across her palm. “I just wish I knew what it was. How I got it,” she replied. “Not knowing is almost worse.”

          “We will find out, Herald,” Leliana assured her. “At the very least, it has stopped spreading, and the Breach is stable.”

          “Solas believes a second attempt could seal it completely, provided the mark has enough power,” Cassandra added.

          “How much power?” Kasde wondered. She was practically vibrating out of her skin with a need to do _something_ other than talk. Standing around wasn’t doing any good.

          “The same level of power used to open it in the first place,” the Nevarren said. “That is not easy to come by.”

          The Herald snorted bitterly. “Sounds fun. What harm could there be in powering up something we don’t understand?”

          “I agree with the Herald,” Cullen groused. “We know next to nothing about the Breach, less so about her mark. Pouring power into it may simply kill her.”

          That was less than reassuring.

          “Which is why we need to contact the rebel mages,” Josephine snipped. “They could examine the mark, and—”

          “And I _still_ disagree.” Cullen’s tone was clipped. “The Templars could serve just as well.”

          Cassandra shook her head. “We need power, Commander. Enough magic poured into the mark could—”

          “Kill me,” Kasde interrupted, “and take everyone else down with me. I’ll not sentence anyone to death for our mistake.”

          “The Templars could suppress the Breach, weaken it so—”

          “Pure speculation,” Leliana interrupted, expression cross.

          “ _I_ was a Templar,” Cullen insisted. “I know what they’re capable of.”

          Kasde openly gawked at him. _Was?_ The only Templars to leave the Order in Ostwick had been forcibly removed, and had often wound up on the streets, begging for mercy. Many of them disappeared without a trace. More were found dead in the gutters.

_How then,_ she wondered, _is this man still standing?_

          Josephine huffed, crossing her arms. “This discussion is pointless,” she said pointedly. “Neither group will even speak to us. The Chantry has denounced the Inquisition – and you, specifically.” Her gaze fell upon the Herald.

          Kasde chuckled darkly. “Well, that didn’t take them long.”

          “Shouldn’t they be busy arguing over who’s going to become Divine?” Cullen ground out.

          “This hardly seems the thing to waste their efforts on,” Kasde agreed.

          The ambassador cleared her throat in a manner that reminded Kasde far too much of home. “Some are calling you the ‘Herald of Andraste,’ and that frightens the Chantry very much.”

          “Why? It’s not as though I’ve made any moves against them,” Kasde said. “I sealed the Breach. Shouldn’t they be happy?”

          “Perhaps,” Josephine replied, “but the remaining Clerics have declared it blasphemy, and we heretics for harboring you.”

          “No doubt Chancellor Roderick’s doing,” Cassandra muttered under her breath.

          “Mm, I remember him. Old, grumpy, full of bullshit and bluster.”

_“Herald!”_

          Josephine’s face twisted in shock and embarrassment. Cullen attempted – poorly – to mask his laughter with a polite cough, and her expression soured further.

          “Such behavior will only serve as detrimental to our cause,” she said coolly. “The Chantry already seeks to disavow us. You need not give them further reason.”

          Kasde scowled.

          “What are the House Trevelyan words? ‘Modest in temper, bold in deed?’ You could at least _try_ to embody the first of those tenets with a bit of grace.”

          There was a sharp intake of breath from across the room. Leliana took a calculated step closer to Josephine, while Cullen and Cassandra both moved further back. Even as she struggled to control her breathing, adrenaline flooded Kasde’s veins. Her pulse quickened, and her hands began to shake. She clenched them at her sides, glaring over the table through narrowed eyes.

          “Miss Montilyet,” she bit out. “You’re beginning to sound a bit like my mother.”

          “With political tensions as they are, perhaps someone ought to—”

          “For your own sake, you’d best not make a habit of it.” Sucking in a calming breath, Kasde shook out her hands and rolled her shoulders. “I apologize for my outburst.”

          Josephine nodded, if not a bit shaken.

          Cullen eased up to the Herald’s side, sensing her discomfort. Their earlier conversation, it seemed, had earned her an ally.

          “Let’s be honest,” he began, “the Chantry would have censured us no matter what. Lady Trevelyan’s presence wouldn’t have changed their minds one way or the other.”

          “And her not being here is not an option, yes,” Josephine agreed defeatedly. “I understand, Commander.”

          Kasde nodded, but her thoughts were elsewhere. “Why is the Chantry more concerned with us than the real threat?” she asked. “Why aren’t they concerned with the Breach?”

          “They are,” Leliana answered. “They just don’t think _we_ can fix it.”

          “They are telling everyone that you’ll make it worse,” Josephine added.

          The Herald threw her hands into the air. “With all of us at each other’s throats, slinging blame around, nothing is going to get fixed!”

          Cassandra nodded, saying, “We need you to continue voicing that, Herald. Some view you as a sign of hope. Others, a symbol of everything gone wrong.”

          Kasde glanced down at the maps. Orlais. Ferelden. The Free Marches. There were so many for her to convince, and all of them wanting her head.

          “What can I do?” she asked. “Give me a problem, and I’ll fix it.”

          Leliana smiled weakly. “There is a Chantry Cleric by the name of Mother Giselle,” she replied. “She has asked to speak with you.”

          “And I’m to believe this isn’t a trap because…?”

          “From what I know of her, she is a kind soul, and not the sort to involve herself in violence. She tends to the wounded in the Hinterlands.”

          “Not a very safe place, given the circumstances,” Cullen scoffed. “The fighting is worst there, now that the mages have set up camp in Redcliffe.”

          “Nevertheless, she is said to be a reasonable sort,” Leliana said, canting her head to the side. “Perhaps she does not agree with her sisters?”

          “She would certainly know more about the Chantry’s aims than us,” Josephine allowed.

          Kasde waved her hands for silence. She was beginning to feel mobbed, her temper flaring back up in her helplessness.

          “Fine, fine. I’ll see what she has to say,” she grumbled. “I guess I’ll see if anyone _else_ has an errand or two for me to run while I’m there.”

          Josephine sighed. “Herald…”

          “Are we done?” Kasde snapped. “I’m afraid I’ve had enough of politics for one day.”

          Leliana and Josephine exchanged annoyed glances that she did her best to ignore. Cullen looked about as done as she felt, which was some small comfort.

          Cassandra cleared her throat loudly. “I’m sure there’s nothing else pressing,” she said, and her tone left little room for debate on the matter. “I won’t leave everything to the Herald.” She patted Kasde’s shoulder gently. “Go. Get some rest while you can.”

          She left gnashing her teeth, biting back several choice words that would have made her mother cringe. The thought of a warm bed and some quiet, however, managed to put a spring in her step. Saving the world was turning out to be exhausting work. She prayed the Maker would give her patience to see things though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Josephine's Antivan:
> 
> Que fastidio!: How annoying/obnoxious!/What a nuisance!  
> Me corres por la puente.: You make me want to jump off a bridge.
> 
> I always see Josephine written as a perfectly buttoned-up diplomat, and we rarely see her truly flustered in the game. I imagine there are times she needs to just *out with it* so she can refocus on her job.


	10. Are You There, Maker? It's Me, Kasde.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kasde struggles with her faith.

           As Kasde made her way back to her cabin, she made sure to swing past Varric’s tent. She breezed past, barely stopping to utter, “Start packing. We’re leaving tomorrow.” In her haste, she also failed to see the sympathy in his eyes.

           Her boots stomped across the sodden steps as she shook the snow from them. The door banged shut behind her. Glancing around the room, she was painfully reminded that none of the things in it were hers. She had nothing of her former life, nothing to remind her who she was or where she came from. The meager belongings she had brought from Ostwick had likely been destroyed in the explosion at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. With a sudden twinge in her heart, she realized her book of hymns was probably gone, too.

           Fisting her fingers in her hair, Kasde let out a scream. Not loud enough to cause alarm, but enough to purge her frustrations. She plopped down on the edge of the bed and ripped at the pins in her hair, flinging them across the room. Her locks tumbled free into her face. Behind the ashen curtain, she hid her burning eyes, stinging with the tears she refused to shed.

           “Maker, help me,” she whispered brokenly. “I don’t even know what I’m doing.”

           He remained silent, which only plunged her deeper into despair and doubt. She longed for His comfort, His guiding hand in her life. Before the Conclave, she had always been so sure – so certain of the path she chose. The Breach had taken the fight from her, and the Maker’s voice with it. And so, she railed against anything and everything like a caged animal, lashing out like the sky. If she fought hard enough, maybe He would speak again.

           A choked sob escaped her. The taste of copper filled her mouth as she bit back her weakness. She would _not_ succumb to hopelessness; her faith would sustain her. The darkness would not have her while she drew breath.

           “ _O Maker_ ,” she whispered, bending her head against her clasped hands. “ _Hear my cry. Guide me through the blackest nights. Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked. Make me to rest in warm places.”_

It was in that moment the stoop outside creaked. Snapping her head up, Kasde rose from the bed, moving cautiously toward the door. Haven had its share of faithful, but most were too frightened to approach her, lest they bother the Herald of Andraste. She fumbled blindly at her sides. Cursing, she realized she hadn’t yet retrieved her new weapons from Harritt.

           Shuffling footsteps could be heard through the crack beneath the door, and no knock came. Kasde’s instincts screamed _fight or flee, fight or flee_. She knew running was not an option, so she took measured, quiet steps toward the bookcase. Pressing her back against it, she waited.

           The door eased open with a loud groan.

           She let her fist fly.

           Her hand made contact. She rounded the bookcase and squared her feet, fists raised. Immediately, her stomach plummeted.

           The Commander glared at her over his hand, which clutched his rather red and bloodied nose.

           “Cullen!” she gasped, cheeks flaring with embarrassment. “I’m sorry!”

           He tried to snort, only to wince in pain, and said something that sounded like, “S’fine.”

           Kasde ushered him into the cabin, hurriedly closing the door before anyone found out she’d _punched_ the Commander of the Inquisition. A small, wooden box was clutched to his side, which he promptly handed her before sitting down on the bed.

           “Fucking Maker, Cullen,” she rambled. “I really am sorry.” She pried his hand away from his nose and grimaced at the fine cut along the bridge of his nose.

           He chuckled at her blasphemy, allowing her to tip his head back. “Really, Herald,” he insisted, “I’m all right.”

           “I just clocked you in the _face_ ,” she argued. Delicately, she pressed her thumbs against either side of the bone. She sighed in relief. “At least I didn’t break your nose.”

           “Much appreciated.”

           Kasde rushed to the small desk and began rifling through its drawers. Her long hair fell in her face as she leant over, and she attempted to blow it out of the way several times before shoving it back with a hand and an agitated snarl. With her free hand, she tossed him a clean rag to blot the blood from his face. She could have _sworn_ she’d left a healing potion or two laying around…

           “Is it customary to hit unwanted guests in Ostwick?”

           “No,” she grumbled, “but it just about sums up my day.” Too late, realization struck her. “Oh, it’s possible you were joking.”

           His smile eased some of the panic from her mind. “Possibly.”

           She tried to grin back through her guilt. He lowered his chin to look at her fully, and she tutted disapprovingly, abandoning her hunt to nudge his head back with a firm fingertip.

           “In all seriousness,” Cullen continued, “I probably should have knocked first. I didn’t mean to startle you, Herald.”

           She bit back a growl, tightening her one-handed grip on her hair. _Herald._ Even in private, her title poured from his mouth. He was kind. Wrong, but kind. She was certain he meant it to be reassuring, but his forgiveness only made her feel worse. So far, she wasn’t living up to _anyone’s_ expectations. The weight of that knowledge crushed down on her, sending tiny jolts of helpless anger through her.

          With a triumphant sound, Kasde wrenched her last potion from the back of a drawer.

          Cullen frowned. “That’s not necessary, My Lady,” he said, pressing a corner of the rag into the cut on his nose.

          The final, thin thread of Kasde’s frail patience finally gave way. “Please, don’t,” she asked, voice hard, but not unkind. “I’m not a Lady.” She scoffed. “Not here anyway. I’m just the same as everyone else.”

          Cullen snorted. “I think ‘everyone else’ would disagree with you.” He lowered the cloth and twisted it nervously between his gloved fingers. “But, I could endeavor to try, My Lady.”

          It was her turn to snort.

          “Sorry. Kasde.”

          And just like that, her fingers forgot what they were supposed to be doing. She fumbled the phial, very nearly dropping it in the process. Her mouth was suddenly painfully dry, and her throat squeezed shut as her heartbeat hammered away on the tip of her tongue.

          What was _wrong_ with her?

           Slowly, and carefully enough that she hoped he wouldn’t notice, she slid her eyes up to gauge his reaction. To her relief, he wasn’t looking her direction. He likely hadn’t even seen her clumsiness, his own eyes locked on the floor, and a slight, rosy tinge to his cheeks.

          She couldn’t help the light upward tug of her own lips.

          “That wasn’t so hard now,” she teased, “was it?” Gently, she tugged the rag from his hands, replacing it with the bright red potion.

          He stared at the bottle dumbly for several seconds.

          “I can feed it to you, if you wish?” she offered impishly, arching her brow.

          Cullen gave her a tired glance before tipping back his head and draining most of the tincture. He smacked his lips distastefully, sticking out his tongue with a violent shiver.

           “As awful as I remember,” he announced, wiping his mouth with the back of his glove. “Thank you, Herald.”

           Kasde cleared her throat loudly.

           He smiled apologetically. “Sorry. That’s going to take some getting used to.”

           She crossed the space between them in two strides and cupped his face with her hands. Twisting him this way and that, she examined his – rather handsome, if she did say so – nose. Already the angry cut had shrunk into a thin, pale line. Another minute would see it healed entirely.

           Satisfied, she released her grip and moved to lean against the desk. “So, is there a reason you stopped by, or were you just aching for a thrashing after that dreadful meeting?”

           Cullen snickered, coughing to mask it at the last instant. “I actually wanted to bring you something,” he explained, and pointed at the box he had been carrying.

           “Presents already?” Kasde asked, a hint of laughter in her voice.

           He instantly flushed. “Maker’s breath, no,” he choked out. “I-I was just—I didn’t mean—Sweet Andraste, can you just open it already?”

           She threw her head back and laughed heartily, feeling freer and more relaxed than she’d been in days. Delicate fingers lifted the lid, and she gasped.

           Her knees hit the floor with a solid _thunk_. Cullen’s startled cry barely caught her notice, for nestled in the bottom of the box, was her hymnal. Discolored and battered, the familiar leather cover stared up at her, stamped with the Chantry’s flaming sun in worn gold embellishment. The pages she had dog-eared as a girl were still folded, exactly as she’d left them. Lifting the small book, she pressed it to her nose and inhaled deeply. The smell of parchment and musty leather filled her senses, providing the exact comfort she needed.

           He _had_ been listening.

           Before she could stop herself, the tears were falling. With a watery sniffle, she wiped her cheeks. “You must think me terribly silly,” she said, chuckling softly at herself. “The Herald of Andraste, brought to tears by a book.”

           “Not at all,” Cullen replied. “There have been many nights that faith alone sustained me. To have gone through everything you have…” He shook his head. “I cannot imagine.”

           “How? How did you know?”

           He shrugged absently, as though such a grand gesture had been no trouble at all. “After the explosion, there was chaos. Those who survived salvaged what they could, and I suppose things began to pile up, what with no one to sort through it.” He rose to his feet and reached over to tip the lid of the box shut with a quiet _snick_.

           Etched into the wood were the initials _K.R.T._

           Kasde gazed up at him in awe, her cheeks stiff with salt. This man, who knew so little about her – who had barely spoken to her – had taken time from other, more important tasks to find her footlocker. She nearly laughed at the ridiculousness of it all.

It seemed half-mad, but something in the warmth of his eyes sang to her. Behind the kindness, behind the mantle of duty, there was a very real pain, one she wished to soothe. Something in him had broken, long ago, and so he understood.

           Returning her eyes to the chest, Kasde noted several of her more personal items nestled within – silly curios to remind her of home, several pieces of jewelry – all trivial compared to the book she clutched to her chest.

           Cullen beamed down at her and moved toward the door.

           Her head snapped up. “Thank you,” she said, a bit loudly. Her heart was full to bursting, every inch of her body alive and thrumming, and she had overcompensated with volume.

           His laughter rumbled up her spine, making her shiver. He opened his mouth as though to speak, but must have thought better of it. A knowing smile crossed his face, and bowed his head respectfully before traipsing back out into the cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter is a reference to Supernatural's fourth season episode "Are you There, God? It's Me, Dean Winchester" and the book "Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret" by Judy Blume.
> 
> The sections where Kasde really struggles with her faith are uniquely challenging for me. As someone who completely lost their faith many years ago, I can relate to her so easily. The challenge lies in taking her to that brink, and then pulling her back.


	11. Magic and Steel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party heads to the Hinterlands to find Mother Giselle, and gets more than they bargained for.

           She set off for the Hinterlands the following day, Varric, Cassandra, and Solas in tow. At Leliana’s suggestion, she agreed to write of her progress. Carefully, she tucked her copy of the Chant into her tired horse’s saddlebags. Whether Cullen saw, she could not say, but the small secret between them brought a slow smile to her lips.

           And so, loaded down with ink and vellum, she urged her mount down the road, prayers for the Herald ringing in her burning ears.

           At every turn, they were filled with greater sorrow. Wreckage littered the sloping path – homes destroyed in the Breach’s wake, carts of personal belongings abandoned in exchange for a life – and Kasde resolved that her first letter would instruct recovery efforts.

           They did their best to distract themselves. Solas, albeit with a hesitant glance at the Seeker, regaled the tiny band with tales of his adventures in the Fade. Varric recited passages from _The Tale of the Champion_ , and saucy poetry when Cassandra threatened to flog him nearly to death. Once, they asked Kasde about home. Her smile quickly faded, and she did not answer.

           They never asked again.

           When they made camp for the night, she slunk off to her tent without a word, leaving her companions to cast worried glances at her back. Curling into her bedroll, she closed her eyes and drifted. She slept fitfully, dreaming of demons and flashes of green. Morning came late.

           They reached the outskirts the following day, only to be greeted by a flurry of arrows and magic. It seemed mage and Templar both cared little who they attacked, leaving smoldering patches of grass and debris along the King’s Road.

           Twice, they called out in peace. Twice, their hands were forced to action. Too often, they delivered bad news.

           Shortly after returning a worn gold ring to an elven widow in the hills, Cassandra suggested they make camp and recover. No one argued.

          Kasde kicked a charred helmet across the path with a guttural snarl. “Has everyone gone completely mad?” she cried.

          The Seeker cast her a sympathetic glance. “The rebel mages are out of control,” she agreed.

          Kasde whirled on her. “It’s not just them!” she shouted. “Open your eyes, Cassandra! The house up the road? _Templars_ burned innocent people alive!”

          “I saw.”

          “Then _blame_ them!” Hot tears stung at her eyes, and she blinked them back. “That’s not what they stand for,” she whispered. “That’s not what I stand for.”

          An eager dwarven scout named Harding directed them to Redcliffe’s former horsemaster, an aging man called Dennet. Unfortunately, their route was cut off by bandits, scattered rifts, and – of all things – bears. Kasde hastily scrawled a letter to Haven, requesting more troops and a team of builders to construct watchtowers. With a little muscle and a clear sightline, the Inquisition had a shot at restoring order, and clearing a path to the horsemaster.

          The following day, while trudging through the woods, they stumbled into a camp of rogue Templars. A brief, heated battle saw them to their end. Further in, they found a large contingent of rebel mages holed up in a cave. Poorly armed and underfed, they put up little resistance. Kasde read from the canticle of Trials as the others buried the bodies in a neat row, mage beside Templar brother.

          “Draw your last breath, my friends,” she chanted. “Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky. Rest at the Maker’s right hand, and be Forgiven.”

          What supplies could be salvaged were delivered to a bright-eyed recruit at the crossroads. Smiling, he immediately took to distributing blankets among the refugees. Thanks to the Maker and His Herald crossed the camp in hushed, tearful whispers.

          That night, Kasde penned several letters by the light of their tiny campfire. Varric snored quietly nearby, while Solas mumbled something in Elvhen while he dreamt. She started a letter home, but found she wasn’t quite sure what to say. After scratching out several attempts, she gave up and tossed the parchment into the flames.

          Harding greeted her the next morning with a bright smile.

          “Hey there, Herald,” she chirped, gently scratching one of Leliana’s ravens under the chin.

          “Hullo, Scout Harding. Any word?”

          The petite dwarf bobbed her head. “The missing scout you found the other day? Ritts, I think. She made it to Haven and checked in with Leliana. Seems like she’s getting along well.”

          Kasde chuckled quietly. “She’s got talent, I’ll give her that. Anything else?”

          “The watchtowers should be finished in the next few days,” Harding replied. “Commander Cullen sent men to staff them, once construction is complete. Oh.” Reaching into belt pouch, she retrieved a folded piece of paper. “He sent this, too.”

          Kasde eyed the wax seal carefully. “Have you read it?”

          “Not for my eyes, Herald,” Harding giggled. “He mentioned something in his report about the recruits you sent him. Didn’t seem too thrilled.”

          “Oh?” the Herald’s eyebrow arched curiously. Breaking the seal, she opened the letter, surprised to see a mere handful of lines written.

_Herald,_

_The recruits you gathered are…questionable. I feel as though I’ve been forced to train_ nugs _to sing the Chant of Light. Do endeavor to try to send me recruits that know which end to grip a sword by._

_Maker guide your hand._

_Commander Cullen Rutherford_

          Kasde gazed up at Harding, her mouth open in a twisted dance between shock and laughter. She cleared her throat and composed herself as best she could.

          “He’s a bit…blunt.”

          Scout Harding shrugged happily. “That’s our Commander.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the chapter title is lame, and I apologize.  
> I didn't want to bog down the story by describing every single thing you do in the game, so I tried to balance it with equal parts glossing over and dialogue.
> 
> Next up: Mother Giselle!


	12. Mother's Advice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kasde finds Mother Giselle at the Crossroads, and gets some much-needed advice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A letter by the Herald to the Commander:  
>  _Commander,_  
>  _The recruits I sent were eager to aid our cause. I trust that fact is not lost on you. Please accept my sincerest apologies for any inconvenience their enthusiasm has caused. I shall try to convince a few of the mercenaries breathing down my neck to enlist. No promises._  
>  _I trust you have matters well in hand, but do inform me of any further difficulties in carrying out your duty._  
>  _Sincerely,_  
>  _Kasde Trevelyan_  
> 

           The Crossroads smelled of blood and ash. Bundles of white cloth, eerily reminiscent of human forms, lined the road, awaiting proper burials. Frantic women in bloodstained frocks tended to the wounded with no thought as to which side they fought on. Pained groans passed from dying mouths.

           Kasde wandered between the cots and bedrolls, doing her best to not fall apart. Each victim she came across – Templar, mage, man, boy – reached out to her. Trembling hands scrabbled in the dirt for even the barest of touches on her boots.

           She felt each of them. Every bloodied finger against the leather. Every plea for salvation. She felt them in her soul, a heavy weight she shouldered willingly. For them, she remained strong, resolute in her purpose. She did not falter, nor did she crumble where the weak and weary could see.

           When the people saw the Herald of Andraste, they would see only the unflinching strength of her faith.

           “Keep them away from me, Mother!” a voice cried.

           Behind one of the buildings, a young man bled out on the ground. Kneeling over him was a woman Kasde could only assume was Revered Mother Giselle.

           “We have mages who could heal your wounds,” she crooned. “Let them help you, child.”

           “Don’t let them touch me!” he repeated. “Not with their foul magic!”

           A kind smile crossed the Mother’s face, patient and understanding. “Turned to noble purpose, their magic is no more evil than your sword,” she murmured. “Rest now.”

          Rising, she turned to face the Herald, and inclined her head respectfully. Kasde returned the gesture, though her eyes remained rooted on the boy’s now still body.

          “You knew,” she whispered.

          The Revered Mother nodded. “I knew,” she replied. “He was not the first to pass my hand and journey to the Maker’s side. He will not be the last.”

          “You are Mother Giselle.” She sounded slow in her own head, shock stealing away her more complex thoughts.

          “I am. And you are the Herald of Andraste.”

          “So they say.”

          Mother Giselle cocked her head to the side. “And what do _you_ say?” she wondered.

          “It is not for me to say what the Maker has in store for me,” Kasde answered, and her words appeared pleasing. “You wanted to speak to me?”

          Mother Giselle gestured for her to follow, toward a place further from prying ears. Kasde motioned for her companions to wait, something Cassandra seemed less than keen on doing.

          “I have heard of the Chantry’s denouncement,” Mother Giselle began. “I am also familiar with those behind it.”

          Kasde crossed her arms. “I’m listening.”

          “Honesty between us, Herald. Many of them are simply,” she floundered for an accurate word, “grandstanding to increase their own chances of becoming Divine. Some, merely terrified. So many were senselessly taken from us. It is difficult to bear.”

          “That’s no excuse,” Kasde blurted. “They’re just making things worse.”

          “ _They_ do not know that.” She waved away any argument with a gentle hand. “Go to them. Prove you are not a demon to be feared.”

          “Appeal to them? They want me dead.”

          “I would not suggest it if I thought you incapable,” Mother Giselle urged. “Their only power is in their united voice. Take it from them, and you will have the time you need.”

          Kasde scoffed and turned away. “So, what,” she demanded, letting her hands drop to her sides, “I show up, say my hellos, show them the Mark on my hand…?”

          The Revered Mother’s voice served to soothe some of the doubt from her mind. “I honestly don’t know if you have been touched by fate, or sent to help us,” she admitted. “But I have hope.”

          The Herald’s ears pricked up.

          “Hope is what we need, now more than ever. You saw the people, heard their cries, felt their touch… They will rally to you, as they will no other.”

          Kasde shook her head. “No one should have that kind of power.”

          “Which is why it must be you,” Mother Giselle implored. “I will go to Haven, and provide Sister Leliana the names of those who would be…amenable to a gathering.”

          “Thank you, Revered Mother.”

          “I cannot seal the rifts, or protect the innocent, but this, I can do for you.” She placed a gentle hand on Kasde’s shoulder as she left. “Have faith, Herald of Andraste.”

          That night, the mood at camp was lighter. In the dark, jokes were passed around the fire like cheap wine in good company. The flames blazed late into the night, their laughter echoing down from the cliffs. When the others had long fallen asleep, Kasde remained awake, smiling softly to herself as light danced in her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy moley, two chapters in a day! Hopefully the last few haven't bored you all to tears.  
> Next up: some choice words from an aggravated party.


	13. Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SOOOOO SORRY!  
> I've been battling my anxiety since I last posted, and it's been horrifically affecting my writing. Rather than post a bunch of chapters I hate, I wanted to make sure they were of the quality you guys deserve.  
> Thank you all again for reading and sticking with me!

          It was nearly dusk when the Herald arrived in Haven a week later. Word of her return had traveled faster than her old, tired nag, and a sizeable crowd awaited her at the gates. Among those gathered stood Leliana and Josephine, pleased smiles etched across their faces. Cullen stood further off, attempting – and failing – not to glower.

          Kasde handed off the reins to an eager stableboy from Ansburg and stretched her tired muscles. It had been too long since she last rode, and never over any substantial distance. She was more than glad to be out of the saddle. After nearly two weeks of fighting bandits, crazed rebels, demons, and bears, she was looking forward to a bath and a warm bed. Her stomach growled loudly, and her mouth watered just thinking about food that wasn’t hardtack or rabbit.

          It was difficult to keep the exhaustion from her face, but she tried her best for the hopeful eyes watching. After all, they believed her the instrument of the Maker’s will. To them, she was infallible, unyielding, someone who could never be broken. How could it be otherwise? Prophets, Heralds, and heroes were never tired in the stories.

          They certainly never got saddle sores.

          Varric and Solas managed to skillfully dodge the crowd’s attention and escape, much to Kasde’s annoyance. She smiled and nodded; thanked the faithful for their blessings and prayers during her absence. The words spilled from her mouth, and after a time, she found herself repeating the same phrases without thinking. Face after face appeared, each seeking but a moment in the Herald’s presence. Fear began to knot in her gut. There seemed no end to them. If someone approached her, babe in arms, she would scream. She drew the line at blessing children.

          By the Maker’s grace, someone cleared their throat. Those still gathered took notice and, humbly, returned to whatever tasks the Herald’s return had pulled them from. Kasde heaved a sigh of relief.

          “Welcome back, Herald,” Leliana snickered, sensing her distress.

          Josephine elbowed her politely. “You did well, Your Grace. Had I not read your letters, I would think your journey to the Hinterlands uneventful.” Grimacing, she delicately plucked a sodden leaf from the Herald’s bun.

          Kasde waved her away, abandoning any prior grace she had displayed. “Bears, Josephine,” she whined. “Bloody, Maker-forsaken _bears_. Do you know how big they are in the Hinterlands?”

          The blank look on her ambassador’s face was answer enough.

          “Big. If I ever see another, it will be too soon.” She rolled her shoulders with a pained groan. “I take it Mother Giselle arrived ahead of me?” she asked.

          “Several days ago,” Leliana confirmed. “She has been a great help, especially with the wounded.”

          “And her… _other_ help?”

          The spymaster’s mouth twitched the slightest bit, and she winked. “Don’t worry, Herald. I will put the names to good use.”

          Kasde nodded. “Good, good. Did I miss anything else?”

          Josephine sniffed dismissively. “A few visiting nobles, but none of any import.”

          Cullen grunted absently, eyes trained somewhere in the distance. Kasde canted her head to the side. Something was off about him. He was stiffer, more rigid than she remembered. His warm eyes were hard and cold, and she got the distinct feeling he was angry.

          “Herald?”

          She shook her head. A nap was definitely in order. “Sorry, Jospehine,” she sighed, “I swear I was trying to listen.”

          The Antivan let out a light chuckle. “It’s quite all right. I’m sure there was little time for rest while you were away; you must be exhausted.”

          Kasde opened her mouth to argue, but thought better of it. “A bit,” she admitted, laughing. “If there’s nothing life or death, I’d like to clean up.”

          “Of course. Again, welcome back, Herald.”

          She didn’t make it halfway up the steps before a firm hand gripped her arm. Startled, she moved to pull away, but her tired body was slow to respond. When she glanced up, Cullen’s grim face stared back at her.

          “A word?” His tone left little room for question.

          “Just one?” she teased. Truthfully, she hoped he kept things short. Bed was sounding _very_ good. Kicking his shin and running was more than an idle thought.

          Growling, he dragged her the rest of the way up the steps, toward her cabin. Gone was the man she had left behind, who had troubled himself with her feelings. In his place stood the Templar, and Kasde felt every bit the misbehaving mage.

          As they neared the door, his grip on her arm tightened painfully, and she, far too tired for it, began to lose patience.

          “Okay, Cullen, you’re starting to hurt me,” she whispered, simultaneously warning and asking him to let go.

          His response was a dry snort, as though unimpressed.

 _Fine._ Squaring her shoulders, she snapped, “Take your hand off me, or I’ll remove it at the wrist.” There was every bit a promise in her voice.

          He eyed her sidelong, one brow arched, as though he wondered at the seriousness of her threat. She stared back, unflinching, as he pushed the cabin door open.

          “Your choice,” she said. “How much would you miss it?”

          With an annoyed snarl, he removed his hand from her arm, placing it instead on the hilt of his sword.

          Kasde crossed her arms. She did not consider herself an expert in his behavior, and her limited interaction with him left her grasping for an explanation. However, a sharp twinge in her gut told her something was very wrong. Cullen didn’t seem the sort to lash out in anger, much less deliberately hurt her. She could only guess at what had happened to trigger such an abrupt change.

          Sighing, she motioned him into the cabin and closed the door behind them. She moved to stand by the window, intentionally putting a fair amount of distance between them. His behavior made her nervous, and she was far too tired to trust her own temper.

          Cullen dragged a hand down his face. “I apologize, Herald. My actions were…untoward.”

          She waved his words away callously. “It’s forgotten,” she ground out. “You wanted to speak with me? Talk then.”

          His eyes were suddenly very hard, and he began to pace the length of the room. “I wanted to address the manner of your correspondence.”

          “Oh?”

          “If you think me unfit to carry out my duties—”

          Kasde’s eyes widened. “Whoa, that is _not_ what I said.”

          “I thought we had an understanding, Herald,” Cullen snapped. “I expected professionalism from you, of all people.”

          “Cullen, you blatantly complained about _volunteers_! We didn’t offer those people anything; they joined us willingly.”

          “I am aware of that, Herald.”

          “Then be grateful! We aren’t in any position to turn away help,” she argued, barging into his space. “I understand they aren’t battle-ready or on equal footing with your troops, but you’re their Commander. Adapt.”

          “That is _hardly_ the issue.”

          “You act like I’m the only one who can’t afford to make mistakes!” Kasde shouted.

          “For someone who claims a strong dislike of politics, you act every bit the spoiled noble.”

          A loud crack filled the room. Cullen’s head snapped to the side, the skin of his cheek already reddening. Kasde stood before him, her arm frozen in the follow-though.

          “How dare you.” Her voice came as little more than a whisper, but the force behind it rang in his ears. “You know _nothing_.”

          Cullen did not respond, too ashamed to so much as lift his head.

          “You haven’t the slightest idea what my life was like.” She took a shaky breath, lowering the offending hand.

          “Herald, I—”

          “Don’t,” she barked. “I don’t know what bug crawled up your ass, but I can tell you I don’t really care. I risked life and limb for a _week_ , for _your_ cause. I didn’t choose to be here. I’m overwhelmed as it is; I don’t need your whining.”

          Cursing loudly, she turned away, carding her fingers through her hair. _Is_ this _what it will be like?_ she wondered. Sore in places she didn’t know could hurt, tired and hungry, she had kept her complaints to herself. Her position as Herald demanded as much. With the world coming apart at the seams, she needed others she could count on, or the façade would slip. Instead, more and more problems lumped themselves on her plate.

          “I’m sorry if my letter upset you,” she said at last. “I was just…frustrated.”

          Cullen snorted. “That’s understandable.” His voice was kinder, softer. “I apologize for…whining, I suppose. Sometimes, I get so wrapped up in my own struggles that I forget you aren’t having a fun go of this mess, either.”

          Kasde nodded considerately. “I need to trust that when I’m gone, things here will carry on as usual. I need _you_ to carry on. Can I trust you to do that?” she asked.

          “Of course,” he replied, as though any other answer else seemed absurd. “With one request, if I may.”

          Kasde crossed her arms as she leaned her hip against the windowsill, but motioned for him to continue.

          “Don’t say _gone,_ ” he whispered, and there was an edge to his voice, almost like a prayer.

          Her features softened. “Oh, Cullen, that’s not what I meant.”

          “I’m aware what you meant, Herald,” he explained, “but the idea of… The thought of _losing_ you…” He growled in aggravation. “What I mean is, the Inquisition cannot afford to lose you.”

          “Of course,” she agreed, throat tight. What was it about him that always managed to rattle her so?

          Cullen cleared his throat abruptly. “I should let you get some rest. I’m sure you’re exhausted, what with rifts, and rebels, and bandits.”

          “Don’t forget the bears.”

          He rewarded her with a gentle grin before turning for the door. “Sleep well, Herald.” He paused, chuckling at some joke only he knew. “Kasde.”

          She watched him disappear through the door, back into the snow, somehow emptier without his company. Despite their differences – or perhaps because of them – they shared a rare companionship. He made her want to do better. She resolved to succeed in his eyes. Whatever he saw in her, she would endeavor to be. She would put her duty to the Inquisition – to Thedas – above all else.

_Even what the heart wants._


	14. Endure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, I'm not even sure if I'm doing this right anymore. I want to clarify that Kasde has serious self-doubt issues, and it's not so much resenting responsibility as questioning her ability to be what everyone needs. This should get cleared up in the next few chapters.

           “Varric?”

           “Yes, Your Gracefulness?”

           Kasde threw a twig at him. “Cut the shit. You know Cullen, right?”

           “Is this a serious question? Because he’s about thirty paces thataway,” the dwarf chuckled, pointing at the gate from his place beside the fire.

           “ _From Kirkwall,_ ” she clarified. “You know, before all this.”

           Varric’s expression sobered abruptly and he sighed. “I’m a writer, not a gossip. Maybe you should go ask him whatever it is you’re itching to know.”

           Kasde tugged at the corner of her sash, the yellow fabric beginning to fray at the edges from wear and tear. He was right, she knew, but things had been going well between her and Cullen in the two days since her return. She didn’t want to ruin it by saying the wrong thing.

           Again.

           “You’re right,” she admitted, shoulders drooping. “I was just…nevermind. It doesn’t matter.”

           Varric eyed her strangely. “What did Curly do now?”

          “Nothing.”

          The way his eyes twinkled told her just how bad she was at lying.

          “We had an argument the other day,” she muttered, and avoided his gaze. “When we got back.”

          “Oh?” The dwarf’s interest was piqued. He settled back against the wall, making a great show of getting himself cozy. “Lover’s quarrel?”

          “What? Maker’s breath, no!” She blew her bangs out of her face with a loud huff. “It’s not like that, so stop right this second, Master _Swords and Shields._ ”

          Varric held his hands up in surrender and laughed. Immediately, she regretted opening her mouth. He was more likely to turn her honest curiosity into some twisted version of romance than offer good advice.

          “Sometimes, I really hate you.”

          “And still, you keep talking to me. Makes a dwarf feel wanted.” He let out one last chuckle and scratched his chin. “What exactly are you wanting to know about Curly?” he asked quietly.

          Kasde shrugged. “I just…wanted to get to know him better,” she replied, only barely catching the upward twitch of his lips. “He’s my advisor, Varric. If we’re going to be working together, I should have an idea of who the man is.”

          “All right, fair enough. But if he finds out, this is your fault.”

          Smirking, she drew her fingers across her lips and mimicked throwing away a key.

          Varric composed himself, then checked once more over her shoulder to make sure the Commander was well out of earshot. “How much do you know about him?”

          “Tall. Sullen. _Ferelden._ Ex-Templar.”

          “Shit. From the top then.” He rubbed the back of his head thoughtfully. “I don’t know much about Curly before he came to Kirkwall,” he said. “I know he was transferred from some Circle in Ferelden, and he was… He was in pretty bad shape.”

          “In what way?”

          Varric shrugged. “To be honest, I don’t know. But he _hated_ mages on a fundamental level. It was almost personal for him,” he replied. “Anyway, after a while, Knight-Commander Meredith took notice, and Curly became her right-hand man. Whatever issues he had with mages, she fed them.”

          Kasde quickly glanced over her shoulder, half expecting to see Cullen staring back from the training yard. Guilt pooled in her gut. It seemed she wasn’t the only one running from their past.

          She must have made some small, sympathetic noise, because Varric’s hand suddenly squeezed her knee and he said, “He’s all right, kid. Even with all the bullshit, he was there when it counted. He put himself between Hawke and Meredith. Saved my hide, _and_ my smartass friend. That makes him a good guy, as far as I’m concerned.”

          She made a low, agreeable sound, not fully listening. Her stare remained transfixed on the same spot, waiting for some small glimpse of Cullen that never came. He had endured so much. More than ever, she wanted to apologize for her deplorable behavior. Her life was not so full of friends, and he had made more effort than most to reach out to her.

          Kasde smiled idly. For once, she realized, there was no price for compassion. He was kind for the sake of being kind, and honest, almost to a fault. Words were not twisted, or uttered from both sides of the mouth. Whoever Cullen was, he was the same regardless of who he spoke to, and she found it more refreshing than she cared to admit.

          A loud thud snapped her back to the present. Cassandra’s armored form towered above her, the overstuffed pack she had dropped at her feet tipping to rest against the Herald’s bent knee.

          “If you two are _quite_ finished,” she sneered, and rolled her eyes.

          Kasde raised an eyebrow. “We’re going somewhere?”

          “Leliana used the information provided by Mother Giselle to apply pressure on the remaining Clerics.”

          “Yes, and I recall that we agreed any further interaction with them was pointless.”

          “No, Herald,” the Seeker spat, “ _you and Cullen_ agreed. _We_ did not.”

          Varric chuckled, skillfully turning it into a cough when Cassandra glared in his direction.

          Kasde groaned loudly and pushed to her feet, slapping the dirt and rocks from her hands and backside. She had long ago given up correcting the Nevarren’s rather liberal use of her title.

          “So, my opinion means nothing?” she hissed. “I’m the one being thrown to the wolves, lest you forget.”

          “I have not forgotten, but you cannot avoid the Chantry simply because you dislike their scheming.” Cassandra’s voice was tired, as though she had already spent a great deal of time explaining the exact same thing to someone else. “They will continue to squawk and spread rumors until we do something.”

          “I don’t care for their words,” Kasde argued. “Let them talk while we act.”

          “Their lies will do as much harm as a blade if left uncontested.”

          “She’s right, you know,” Varric chimed in. “We need to prove them wrong.”

          Kasde glared at him from the corner of her eye. “Not helping, Varric.”

          The sly bastard merely winked.

          “Is there any way I can convince the lot of you just how _awful_ an idea this is?” Kasde grumbled.

          “Cullen has already tried, Herald,” Cassandra replied, crossing her arms. “Whatever you have to say, I have heard it.”

          “I don’t much like being overruled.”

          The Seeker grunted in amusement. “Get used to it. When it comes to political matters, you and the Commander are sorely out of your element.”

          The Herald let out a loud huff, but was smart enough to realize when she was beaten. She snatched up her pack and slung it over her shoulder, sulking all the while. Varric wagged his fingers and smiled deviously.

          “What, you’re not coming?” she asked.

          “Nope. Seeker here thought I’d draw too much unwanted attention. Solas, too,” he replied. “Enjoy the, ah, girl time.”

          Cassandra made a disgusted sound. “There will be enough people clamoring around the Herald without the two of you bumbling about,” she explained. “I want as few potential threats to her safety as possible.”

          “Really, neither of you are making me feel better,” Kasde whined. “Honestly, how many people do you think want me dead?”

          “The real number, or the one that won’t scare you?” the dwarf inquired.

          Growling, Kasde shoved the same pesky strands of hair from her face and followed Cassandra to the stables. Eight conversations, three arguments, and two ruined training dummies had done nothing to change the majority opinion. Dragging her feet and whining like a petulant child was unlikely to fare any better. Short of throwing herself into the Void, there was little she could do but nod her head and force a smile.

          There were days she longed for a life outside the public eye, locked in her room back in Ostwick. The stares had followed her even then, but she could hide, run away.

          Escape.

          Again, Kasde was struck with the despairing thought that her ascension as Herald was a cosmic mistake. Had Andraste balked at responsibility, or wavered in faith as she did? Had the Prophet considered hiding under the covers while others took up arms? She had resolved to do better – had sworn to follow the Maker’s Will, and yet…she hesitated.

          In her heart, she knew comparing herself to Andraste was a foolish practice, one that would only see her to ruin. She was who she was born to be, and whether fate or accident, she was the Herald. Questioning and beating herself down would help no one.

          They passed through the training yard, where the ring of steel scattered the self-doubt from her mind. People from all manner of backgrounds had given themselves wholly to the cause. _How can I do any less?_ she thought to herself.

          Cullen’s firm voice barked out a correction, startling her out of her reverie. He caught her gaze and nodded dutifully before gesturing at his side. It took her a moment to realize his intent. She checked the side pouch of her pack, delighted to see her hymnal tucked safely inside.

 _I shall weather the storm,_ she smiled to herself. _I shall endure._

          Words were unnecessary, she realized. Somehow, her heart felt lighter, the weight of her burden temporarily lessened by her faith, and that was enough. She gave him a thumbs-up, fastening the buckle on her pack and stringing it to her poor horse’s saddle. When she came back, she would make sure to return the favor.

          Had she mustered the courage to look back, she would have seen the Commander’s amber eyes tracking her every movement until she disappeared from sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> None of the companions except Cassandra offer anything useful in the Val Royeaux section of The Threat Remains, so I decided to leave Varric and Solas at home, especially considering we'll be picking up a few friends while in Orlais.  
> Also, keep an eye on the tag updates. I've been sitting on one for a LONG time because I don't want to spoil the surprise. ;)


	15. The Threat Remains

           An unfinished letter crumpled inside the Herald’s pack:

            _Josephine,_

_~~The next time you decide to send me in against a pack of baying dogs~~_

_~~When I said this was a bad idea~~_

_~~I’m not sure how you expect me to get answers out of anyone with all these utterly horrendous masks.~~_

_This is ridiculous._

_________________________________________________________________

          Val Royeaux was disgusting. It was far too bright, and much too cheery, despite the chaotic and raw state of the world. The entire city was hypocrisy in practice. Masked nobles complained over trivial matters, either feigning indifference or blissfully unaware. They demanded that _someone_ do _something_ , all the while condemning the actions of those who had stepped forward. They hid behind glided fans and lace gloves, too frightened or ignorant to help.

          Kasde couldn’t decide which of those things bothered her most, and so settled for hating all Orlesians on principle.

          Cassandra kept a close watch, looking every bit the intimidating warrior she was, and then some. A menacing scowl was permanently affixed to her face, which served to ward off any attempts at idle chatter. She, too, seemed uncomfortable in Val Royeaux, but for perhaps entirely different reasons.

          As they made their way across the Avenue bridge, several ladies squealed at the sight of them. Unsure if they were pleased or merely terrified, Kasde ignored them, keeping her eyes forward.

          “My Lady Herald!”

          One of Leliana’s scouts – Watcher, if she recalled correctly – skidded to a halt and dropped to one knee. Her cheeks were flushed, slim eyes pinched fearfully.

          Kasde motioned for her to stand. “What have you found?”

          “The Chantry mothers await you,” the scout replied, “along with a great many Templars.”

          Ah. Kasde turned away, uttering a loud curse. “Nothing’s ever simple, is it?” she mused aloud, placing her hands on her hips.

          “People think the Templars will protect them,” Watcher continued.

          “From what?” Cassandra’s tone was incredulous.

          The Herald snorted and flicked a strand of hair out of her eyes. “What else, Cassandra? _Us._ ” She turned to face the scout, a thoughtful look on her face. “Go back to Haven,” she ordered. “Tell my advisors what’s happened, in case we are…delayed.”

          “As you say, My Lady.”

          The scout took off at breakneck pace, not stopping to glance back. Cassandra moved closer, her dark eyes darting about nervously.

          “I know Lord Seeker Lucius,” she whispered. “I cannot see him supporting the Chantry, not after all that’s occurred.”

          Kasde shrugged. “It could be he’s not here,” she suggested. “Could be a small faction within the Order disobeying his command.”

          “I’m not certain which I would prefer. Let us hope they are open to reason, at least,” the Seeker sighed. “Try to mind your tongue.”

          “When have I been anything but polite?” Kasde guffawed, feigning offense.

          Cassandra eyed her suspiciously. “My point stands.”

          A large throng of people had gathered in the main square. Angry voices rang off the gilded parapets, most shouting nonsense in thick Orlesian accents. A gaggle of Clerics incited the mob from a small wooden podium. Two sets of armor glinted in the sunlight, bearing the flaming sword of the Templar order. The sight made Kasde want to spit. The Chantry was to be a gentle, guiding hand, not a clenched fist wielding barefaced lies and fear.

          Slowly and carefully, the two women wended their way through the crowd, earning them several startled gasps. The nearest Templar’s eyes narrowed, but she made no effort to move from her post.

          “Good people of Val Royeaux!” one of the Revered Mothers cried. “Hear me! Together, we mourn our Divine, her naive and beautiful heart silenced by treachery!”

          Quiet, agreeable murmurs rose in answer.

          “You wonder what will become of her murderer,” the Mother went on. “Wonder no more!” She pointed an angry, gnarled finger in Kasde’s direction. “Behold the so-called Herald of Andraste! She who claims to rise where our beloved fell.”

_Shit._

          Cassandra took a protective step closer, shaking her head. Let them say their peace, it said. Shouting them down risked starting a riot, and they were both loathe to injure innocent, albeit irritating, civilians.

          “We say this is a false Prophet! No servant of anything beyond her selfish greed!”

          Kasde ground her teeth painfully, biting down the stream of obscenities that came to mind. “You say I am the enemy,” she cried. “The _Breach_ is our true enemy. The Inquisition is here to do what you will not, too busy spinning self-serving lies to aid the people!”

          “It’s true!” Cassandra pleaded. “We only seek to end this madness, before it is too late.”

          Movement from the edge of her vision caught the Herald’s attention. A half-dozen livid Templars marched through the market, as though the whole scene were rehearsed. Cries of alarm filtered through the rabble.

          “It is already too late!” the Revered Mother roared. “The Templars have returned to the Chantry. They will face your ‘Inquisition,’ and the people will be safe once more!”

          Suddenly, one of the Templars struck the ranting Cleric. His closed fist met the back of her head with a sickening _thump_ , and she dropped to the ground. The Templar who had been beside her flinched, his face contorted in anguish and uncertainty.

          “Still yourself,” a gravelly voice commanded. “She is beneath us.”

          Lord Seeker Lucius was a tall, lean man with unusually pale, craggy skin. The silver fall of his hair was gathered behind his head in a half-tail, which only served to bring attention to the alarming redness of his pale eyes. He moved with a surety of purpose that only came with experience and age in a life lived by the sword.

          Cassandra stiffened noticeably, and Kasde shifted her weight between her feet. Her skin was overtight across her tense muscles, but she wasn’t keen on starting a fight she stood little chance of winning.

          “Was that little display meant to impress me?” she snapped.

          The Lord Seeker smirked. “On the contrary,” he said, “It wasn’t for you at all.” Turning, he motioned for his men to follow, and abandoned the Chantry mothers to wallow in self-pity.

          Cassandra bolted after him, her voice plaintive in a way Kasde had never heard. Whoever the man was, he inspired obedience – perhaps even fear – in a woman she thought incapable of kowtowing to authority.

          “Lord Seeker,” she pleaded, “it is imperative that we speak with—”

          “You will not address me.”

          The words stilled her feet, confusion plain in her eyes. “Lord Seeker?”

          Lucius whirled on her. As he spoke, disdain dripped from each word like spider ichor. “Creating a heretical movement, raising up a puppet as Andraste’s prophet. This ‘Marcher whore?” He spat on the ground. “You should be ashamed.”

          “And what of your actions?” Kasde demanded.

          “The Templars failed no one when they left the Chantry to purge the mages!”

          Her lip curled in disgust. “ _Purge?_ They’re people, not a sickness!”

          “ _You_ are the ones who have failed! You would leash our righteous swords with doubt and fear!”

          “There is nothing righteous about slaughtering innocent people!”

          Cassandra placed a reassuring hand on her arm, and moved slightly forward. It was a protective gesture, and a warning.

          “Lord Seeker,” she begged, “try to see reason.”

          He scoffed. “If you came to appeal to the Chantry, you are too late. The only destiny here that demands respect is _mine_.”

          “Then your only reason for coming here was to gloat,” Kasde snarled.

          “I came to see what frightens old women so, and to laugh.”

          The Templar who had looked so conflicted moments before stepped forward, his eyes flitting between the Herald and his Lord Seeker. He was young, she realized, and still believed in his oaths; an idealist. She pitied him.

          “Lord Seeker, what if she really was sent by the Maker?” he asked. “What if—”

          “You are called to a higher purpose!” one of his comrades bellowed. “Do not question!”

          Lucius squared himself in front of his recruits, lips curving into the sickest of grins. “I will make the Templar Order a power that stands alone against the Void. _We_ deserve recognition, independence! You have shown me nothing, and the Inquisition…less than nothing.” He gestured absently, and the gathered Templars turned on their heels in unison, heavy boots tramping toward the market gate. “Val Royeaux is unworthy of our protection,” he declared. With a final, smug glance in the Herald’s direction, he too departed.

          Kasde threw her hands in the air, something she was becoming quite accustomed to. “Well, _that_ was helpful,” she muttered to no one in particular.

          “Has the Lord Seeker gone mad?” Cassandra asked, dismayed.

          “He’s definitely lacking in the charm department.”

          Cassandra ignored the comment. “I don’t understand. He was always a decent man, never given to ambition or grandstanding. This is bizarre.”

          “Decent men don’t condone the behavior we saw today,” Kasde said. “Whatever you knew of him doesn’t apply anymore. He’s clearly changed, and not for the better.” She shook her head. “The Templars aren’t our only option.”

          “We have no reason to believe things are any more stable in Redcliffe,” the Seeker argued. “For all we know, it could be worse.”

          Kasde chuckled darkly, jabbing a thumb over her shoulder. “Would you ally with _that?_ They’re a few wagons short of a convoy, Cassandra.”

          “Don’t write them off so quickly, Herald. Surely, there must be those in the Order who see what’s the Lord Seeker has become.”

          The Herald rocked back on her heels, thrusting her thumbs through her sash. She chewed her lip thoughtfully. “Either way, we should head back to Haven and inform the others,” she said with a growl. “Josephine will be _thrilled_.”

          She was halfway across the market when remorse wracked her gut. Glancing back, she saw the Revered Mother Lucius’s man had struck, still struggling to stand. In her anger, leaving the Chantry to clean up its own mess seemed poetic justice for decrying her as a heretic. They had chosen to alienate her, as they had so many others, rather than unite for the greater good. What did she care for the consequences of their actions?

          Still, Kasde had been raised under the Chant. The words were as familiar to her as her own heartbeat, and she could not ignore their message. She could not watch others suffer without offering comfort. Misguided though as they had been, forgiveness would prove a strong first step in the right direction.

          Kneeling before the platform, she extended her hand slowly.

          “You must be terribly pleased with yourself,” the Revered Mother spat.

          Kasde smiled patiently. “No,” she replied. “I’m just Kasde.”

          The older woman seemed perplexed, unsure how to respond her kindness. “I am Mother Hevara,” she said at last.

          “Are you all right, Revered Mother?”

          “I—yes.” The tension bled from her in a single, pained groan. “Shown up by our own Templars, my fellow Clerics scattered to the wind, along with their convictions…” She closed her eyes. “Maker, help us.”

          “The Maker helps those who help themselves,” Kasde murmured. “Help us.”

          Mother Hevara’s eyes narrowed for a fraction of a second. Likely, she didn’t appreciate a potential pretender citing Chantry rhetoric at her. Rather than slapping her, as Kasde expected, she let out a tired sigh.

          “Just tell me one thing: do you believe you are the Maker’s chosen?”

          Kasde hesitated, pulling back her hand to clasp it around the other between her knees. “I…I don’t rightly know,” she admitted. “But I have to try, don’t I?”

          “That is…more comforting than you might imagine.” Hevara shifted, eliciting a sharp hiss. Her sudden fall must have done more damage than anyone realized. “Regardless, it is out of our hands now,” she continued. “We shall all see the Maker’s plans in the days to come.”

          “I will find a way to stop this,” she swore. “Do you believe me?”

          Doubt gleamed in Hevara’s eyes, just behind the sheen of unshed tears. “Andraste preserve me if I am wrong,” she whispered, “but yes. For you to be true, a great many things must be false. For you to be false, a great many things have failed.”

          Without thinking, Kasde reached out a second time, wrapping her fingers tightly around the other woman’s hand. “Have faith, Revered Mother.” Offering a reassuring squeeze, she released her grip and rose to her feet. “ _I_ will not fail.”

          When she turned, Cassandra was shaking her head, smiling bemusedly. “If only they had listened sooner, we might have avoided this whole mess.”

          Kasde brushed past without stopping. “No sense lamenting what’s already done, Seeker,” she called over her shoulder. “Come on, the world’s not going to save itself.”


	16. Friends in Low Places

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, I didn't get to In Hushed Whispers in time for my birthday. That bad anxiety week really set me back :(  
> It's my goal to have the next few chapters pumped out by this weekend, and to have In Hushed Whispers up by early next week. I do apologize for the delay.

           “This is ridiculous!” Kasde growled, snatching a raggedy red handkerchief from the ground. It had all started with an arrow that nearly struck her in the foot. Perverse curiosity made her follow the attached note, meandering from one end of Val Royeaux to the other on the most asinine scavenger hunt imaginable. Truthfully, she wasn’t even sure _what_ she was looking for, or whose clues she was following.

           She sifted through the handful of notes as she walked. “An invitation to the estate of Duke Bastien de Ghislain, an invitation to Redcliffe…” She let out an exasperated sigh. “I don’t have time for this!” A guard eyed her warily as she retrieved her next clue.

           “I agree that we cannot be in all those places at once,” Cassandra said. “However, as I believe you have said, we cannot afford to turn away potential allies.”

           “Yes, yes, I’m an occasional tit,” the Herald grumbled. “Don’t remind me.” She glanced down at the newest addition to her collection of scrap paper. “Should be through here.”

           “What should be?”

           Kasde shrugged. “I guess we’ll find out.”

           The courtyard was dark and empty, the only light cast from the moon hanging overhead. Its ghastly glow cast all manner of twisted shadows across the abandoned crates stacked beneath the awnings. Filthy scraps of parchment littered the ground, occasionally skipping over the stone when the light breeze tossed them. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked.

           The entire situation sent a shiver up Kasde’s spine, triggering alarms in her head. Quietly, she slipped one of her daggers over her shoulder.

           “This reeks of a setup,” she muttered to Cassandra, who nodded and drew her own blade.

           Suddenly, they were surrounded. Steel flashed in the dim light, and Kasde stumbled back to avoid having her face cleaved open. The Seeker was beside her in an instant, driving her attacker back, a feral cry tearing from her throat. Kasde sidestepped around, driving the point of her dagger into a second man’s chest before he could realize his mistake.

           They made quick work of their assailants, who looked little more than petty criminals – certainly not of the caliber to take down the Herald. Wiping her blade clean on one of the bodies, she pressed forward, through the cracked door at the other end of the alley.

           A second slower, and the fireball would have taken her head clean off. She dodged the second with ease and stepped fully into the courtyard.

           “Herald of Andraste!”

           Kasde snarled. She was going to start charging every time she heard that Maker-forsaken title.

           “How much did you expend to discover me? The cost must have weakened the Inquisition immeasurably!”

           She eyed the man up and down. A gold mask covered his face, a ridiculous cap covering his hair. He looked every bit the typical Orlesian noble. She wouldn’t have been able to pick him out of a crowd if she tried.

           “Sorry,” she said, “but I don’t know who you are.”

           He threw his head back and cackled. It was a practiced laugh, and extremely overdone. “You don’t fool me!” he crowed. “I’m too important for this to be an accident!”

           Kasde crossed her arms. “Be that as it may, I _still_ don’t know you.” She glanced over her shoulder at the Seeker to find her just as lost, and shrugged in confusion.

           “My efforts will survive in victories against you elsewhere!”

           She cocked her head to the side and screwed up her face. Was he serious? The whole thing felt like a scene right out of a bad crime serial.

           A startled yelp rang out, followed by an oddly cheery shout of, “Just say ‘what!’”

           An elf stood over the body of a guard, bow drawn and a crooked grin on her face. The masked man whipped about in panic, jabbing an angry finger in her direction.

           “What is the—”

           The arrow sank neatly into the eye socket of his mask, spraying blood into the air.

           “Squishy one, him, but you heard me, right?”

           The elf sidled up to the Herald’s side, smirking down at her handiwork. “‘Just say what.’ Rich tits always try for more than they deserve.” Bending down, she yanked the arrow from his skull with a sickening squelch. “Blah, blah, blah! Obey me! Arrow in my face!”

           Kasde stared at her, openmouthed and gawking. Her mind raced to catch up. What exactly did one say to that?

           The elf rambled on as though in the middle of a pleasant chat over afternoon tea. “You followed the notes well enough. Glad to see you’re…” She wrinkled her nose. “You’re kind of plain, really. All that big talk, and you’re just…a person.”

           “As opposed to, what, a mabari?” Kasde asked, head still reeling.

           “It’s all good, innit?” the elf gushed. “The important thing is: you glow? You’re the Herald thingy?”

           Kasde shook her head, pressing the heel of her hand between her eyes. “Slow down,” she begged. “I don’t even know what’s going on here. Who was that man?”

           “No idea. I don’t know this idiot from manners,” the elf replied with an idle shrug. “My people just said the Inquisition should look at him.”

           “Elves?”

           “No, _people_ people,” she giggled. “Name’s Sera. This is cover; get ‘round it.”

           The Herald’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

           “For the reinforcements.” The elf nudged her elbow playfully. “Don’t worry. Someone tipped me their equipment shed. They’ve got no breeches!”

           Kasde raised an eyebrow puckishly. She wasn’t quite sure what to make of the woman; whether or not she should be taken seriously. But when two dozen guards rounded the corner, underclothes bared to the night, she had her answer.

           “Why didn’t you take their weapons?!” she hollered, even as she choked on her laughter.

           The elf cackled, high and wild. “Because no breeches!”

           Lack of proper leg armor left plenty of targets open for attack. Kasde weaved in and out of the fray, slashing wickedly at anything in reach. Arrows whipped past, impeccably aimed, to slip beneath an outstretched arm or between her legs. _Whoever she is_ , she thought, _she knows her business._

           Sera kicked a nearby corpse in the ribs, snickering obnoxiously to herself. “Friends really came through on that tip,” she beamed. Then, with a _very_ unladylike snort, she added, “No breeches.”

           Cassandra made a disgusted noise somewhere behind them.

           “So,” the elf hummed, “Herald of Andraste. You’re a weird one.”

           Kasde grimaced. “Thank you?”

           “I’d like to join.”

           The Seeker rammed herself between them, drawing herself up to her full height. “You provided a random trail that led us into a trap,” she hissed.

           “What trap?” Sera scoffed. “You knocked, he crapped. It’s like this: I left you clues from my friends. The Friends of Red Jenny. That’s me.”

           “ _You’re_ Red Jenny?”

          Kasde’s jaw dropped. The organization had risen to power during the late Blessed Age, if memory served. The aftermath of the Fifth Blight saw a drastic increase in their activities, spreading their reach to Val Royeaux and the Free Marches. They’d managed to make a rather decent mess in Ostwick, several years before. She found it difficult to imagine such a wildfire personality responsible for their successes.

          Sera screwed up her face. “Well, I’m one,” she replied. “So’s a fence in Montfort, someone woman in Kirkwall… There were three in Starkhaven, brothers or something. But the name helps little people – ‘friends’ – be a part of something bigger.”

          “All while sticking it to greedy nobles,” Kasde pointed out. “I know full well what you and your _friends_ are capable of.”

          “Well, there you have it. My friends are out there, and I used them to help you.” Sera smirked. “Plus arrows.”

          Cassandra grunted.

          “You know who gave him up?” the elf snapped, pointing at the masked corpse behind them. “Some houseboy who don’t know shite, but knew a bad person when he saw one.”

          “What exactly are you offering?” Kasde groaned. Sera, perhaps, she could trust, but her Friends? She had no way of knowing who was connected, or if they would wake up one day and decide the Herald of Andraste was worth taking down a peg.

           “Look, I want everything to get back to normal,” the elf huffed. “Same as you, yeah?”

           Kasde glanced over her shoulder at the Seeker. Her expression was as close to blank as Cassandra could manage, pinched somewhere between anger and annoyance. She shook her head once. _Not my call._

           “All right, Sera. I think we can use you and your people,” Kasde said.

           The elf pumped her fist. “Yes! Get in good before you’re too big to like!”

           “Just…don’t make me regret it.”

           She bobbed her head enthusiastically. “Right. Haven.” Then, spinning on her heel, she wagged her fingers daintily, singing, “Be seein’ ya, Herald.”

           She wasn’t entirely certain what she had just agreed to – or gotten herself into, for that matter. A strange elf in a dark alley had saved her life, after luring her into a trap. She rubbed the back of her head, subconsciously checking for bumps. But Sera wanted to help – or, at least, claimed to, and she was grateful for that. Like Andraste and Shartan before them, quite a pair they would make, she thought with a smile.

          Beside the gate, Sera had left a gift. Peering inside, Cassandra made a disgusted sound.

_Far_ too many breeches.


	17. Words and Worms

           Cassandra departed for Haven with Sera, if only to make sure the overexcited elf made it there in one piece. Truthfully, she wanted to avoid the prying questions and sideways glances so often cast her way when in the company of the social elite. Kasde couldn’t exactly hold a grudge. She likely would have done the same, had she the choice, but the decision left her alone in shark-infested waters.

           Suddenly, she missed the bears.

           The chamberlain took her invitation with a solemn nod. She was uncomfortably reminded of home, but bit back any cruel barbs.

           “Lady Trevelyan of Ostwick,” he intoned, “representing the Inquisition.”

           Kasde sneered. _Far too much like home._

Wicked eyes slanted her way, leering through gem-encrusted eyeholes. Even they knew she didn’t belong. She let out a heavy breath. What was she doing here?

           “What a pleasure to meet you, My Lady,” a cool voice drawled. Two fine, Orlesian specimens eyed her thoroughly. The man blended in spectacularly with the rest, but the woman… Kasde shivered. Ruffles beyond reason.

           Nevertheless, she put on her best smile. “Lady Trevelyan is my mother,” she said, tone polite, but clipped.

           The man frowned. “How…quaint.”

           “Are you here for Madame de Fer?” the woman piped up, deftly changing the subject. “Or are you a guest of Duke Bastien?”

           Kasde wrinkled her brow in confusion. “I received an invitation from a First Enchanter Vivienne. Who is Madame de Fer?”

           “Madame de Fer is a…fond nickname the court has given Lady Vivienne,” the man explained, idly sipping his drink.

           “I hear she finds it quite amusing.” The woman let out a practiced giggle, far too pretty to be genuine. “But enough. I have heard the most _curious_ tales of you.”

           Kasde decided she didn’t care for the obscene way she drew out the word. “I’m sure most of them were exaggerated,” she replied tightly. “You know how gossip can be.”

           “Quite. I’m sure that is in part the reason for Duke Bastien’s absence,” the woman said. “He probably wishes to distance himself from his one-time son-in-law’s actions, what with the civil war.”

           The man scoffed. “Tearing up the Dales in a foolish bid for power? It will end in disgrace for Gaspard. Everyone knows it.”

           The Herald feigned interest, although she was truly grateful for the uncensored blabbering. She made a mental note to discuss her finds with Josephine.

           “I’ve always liked an underdog,” she quipped. Perhaps a more laidback approach would loosen their lips further.

          “Better and better!” the woman giggled. “The Inquisition should attend more of these parties!”

          “The Inquisition. What a load of pig shit.”

          A young man, likely not even out of his twenties, sauntered down the stairs toward her. His mask – bronze, she noted, not gold – was rather plain. She sincerely doubted the lack of decoration was for fashion’s sake.

          “Washed up Sisters and half-mad Seekers… No one can take them seriously.”

          Kasde tracked him with her pale eyes, and placed her hands on her hips. “We’ve only just met,” she purred, “but I’m afraid I don’t like your tone.”

          “Everyone knows this is an excuse for political outcasts to grab for power,” he sniggered.

          “The Inquisition is working to restore peace,” she countered, fighting the rising venom in her voice. “We want justice for the Divine, and to protect the people of Thedas from the Breach.”

          A smirk peeked out from under the edges of his mask. “Ah, here comes the outsider, restoring peace with an army.”

          “Think what you like,” Kasde sneered, “but we are trying to do what’s right.”

          Quiet murmurs echoed across the vaulted ceiling. _Great._ Despite her best efforts, she was making a scene, in an Orlesian estate, no less. Jospehine was going to have a fit.

          The young noble invaded her personal space. When he spoke, the heavy scent of wine coated his breath. “If you were a woman of honor, you would step outside and answer the charges.”

          Startled gasps rose around them.

          Kasde crossed her arms over her chest, digging her fingers into her arms. Smacking a drunk noble was likely to attract more negative attention than she’d already garnered. “You question _my_ honor?” she snorted. “Rude, for one thing.”

           Incensed, he reached for his blade, just as the temperature rapidly dropped. A thin sheen of frost crept over him, inching and creeping to encase him, head to toe. With a strangled cry, he realized he could not move. His eyes widened behind the mask, blatant terror shining in the soft light.

           Kasde’s eyes had caught everything. In the far wing, a woman stood, her hand outstretched. Her dark face was hidden behind a silver mask that arched above her head into a delicate set of dragon horns. A mage, she concluded, and one of no small talent. To freeze a man solid without aid of a staff or focus…

           “My dear Marquis,” she hummed. Her voice was soft and tender, veiling the true menace of her words. “How dare you use such language in _my_ house, to _my_ guests.”

           The First Enchanter slid an idle hand across Kasde’s shoulder, offering a reassuring pat. Her smile was careful, practiced, and not entirely genuine.

           Orlesians.

           “You know I find such poor manners…intolerable.”

           The young Marquis’s eyes tightened. “Lady Vivienne, I humbly beg your pardon!” he stammered.

           “You should.” She slid her eyes to the Herald, running a delicately manicured nail across her lips. “Tell me, my dear,” she crooned, “what would you have me do with this foolish, foolish man?”

           Kasde nearly choked. “Me?”

           “You are the wounded party in this unfortunate affair, My Lady.”

           She was hardly wounded by the half-hearted insults. Crying foul would only prove the Herald of Andraste had thin skin, and required others to defend her reputation.

           “He’s of no interest to me,” she said at last, shrugging idly. “Your house, your rules.”

           Lady Vivienne’s smile sent her skin crawling.

           Delicately gripping the young man’s jaw, she released the spell. “Poor Marquis,” she pouted, mocking in her sympathy, “issuing challenges and hurling insults like some Ferelden dog lord.”

           He collapsed to his knees, coughing and wheezing.

           “And all dressed up in your Aunt Solange’s doublet,” she went on. “Wasn’t it a gift for the Grand Tourney? To think, all the brave chevaliers who will be competing left for Markham this morning.” She grinned viciously. “And you’re still here.”

           The Marquis turned his face away in shame.

           “Did you hope to sate your wounded pride by defeating the Herald of Andraste in a public duel?” She sniffed dismissively. “I believe she would mop the floor with you, my dear. Unless you intended her blade to end your miserable failure?” Then, hauling him to his feet, she pushed him toward the door, saying, “Run along, and _do_ give my regards to your aunt.”

           His presence was not sorely missed, if the actions of the other guests were any indicator. They quickly returned to whatever drab topic held their interest before the Marquis’s outburst, as though nothing at all had happened.

           The First Enchanter gestured for Kasde to follow somewhere more private. Together, they moved toward one of the towering windows along the wall. Kasde noted, with the barest of smiles, that prying ears were well out of range.

           “I apologize if my being here upset your guests,” she said sincerely.

           Vivienne laughed softly. “Nonsense, my dear. I extended the invitation, and while here, you are under my protection,” she explained. “ _Most_ of my guests understand the limits of my hospitality.”

           “I appreciate you stepping in, nonetheless.”

           The First Enchanter canted her head to the side, eyeing her curiously. “Aren’t you charming,” she sang. “Lady Trevelyan, I’m delighted you could attend this little gathering.”

           “Please, call me Kasde. Lady Trevelyan is my mother.”

           That seemed to make Lady Vivienne somewhat uncomfortable. Her full lips tugged downward ever so slightly; a blink would have missed it. “As you may have guessed,” she carried on, recovering masterfully, “I am Vivienne, First Enchanter of Montsimmard, and Enchantress to the Imperial Court.”

           “Quite the mouthful,” Kasde remarked. Titles had never much appealed to her. Jutting her chin toward the door, she asked, “Is that Marquis going to be a problem?”

           Vivienne pursed her lips thoughtfully, then waved the idea away with a delicate hand. “Mont-de-Glace has little political weight to throw about,” she said, “but his family is well-respected.”

           “That’s not quite an answer.”

           “They are _very_ devout,” she stated. “His aunt is Vicomtesse. She will see Alphonse disowned for this. Rudeness is a habit of his, but I’m sure this is the last time he disgraces his aunt.”

           Kasde winced. “I never intended to cause—”

           “You are not the cause of anything, my dear,” Vivienne insisted. “Your presence was merely an excuse. After such a public humiliation, I’m sure he’s running off to the Dales as we speak.”

           “To what end?”

           “Either to win back some smidgeon of self-respect, or to make a good end for himself.”

           Kasde leaned her shoulder against the cool, marble wall, crossing her arms. A defensive gesture, to be sure, but her present company made her feel every bit the mouse in their wretched claws.

           “All right, Lady Vivienne,” she said, “I’m here. What exactly do you want?”

           The First Enchanter hummed a laugh to herself. “My, my, not one for politicking, are you?”

           “The world is coming apart at the seams, Lady Vivienne. I haven’t the time or luxury to waste my breath,” Kasde snapped. “So please, get to the point.”

           Vivienne frowned – for the third time, by her counting – and sighed loudly. “Very well. With Divine Justinia dead, the Chantry is in shambles. Only the Inquisition stands a chance to restore order to our frightened people.”

           “Go on.”

           “As the leader of the last loyal mages of Thedas, I feel it only right that I offer you my assistance.”

           It was Kasde’s turn to frown. “Loyal to whom?”

           “To Thedas, of course,” Vivienne replied. _“Magic exists to serve man, never to rule over him._ We have not forgotten that commandment.”

           “And how, Madame de Fer, do you intend to serve?”

           The First Enchanter grinned widely. “I support any effort to restore order. Where can mages safely master their talents in a world gone mad?”

           “So, you would see the Circle restored.” It was not a question.

           “Reformed, perhaps, would be a more suitable word. I, unlike my former fellow mages, do not believe magic should go unchecked.”

           Kasde managed to keep her face neutral, with some effort. Words passed in gilded estates were not to be trusted, but the notion was sound. However, she found herself wondering what truths lay behind the mage’s carefully constructed façade.

           “You still haven’t told me what you want, Lady Vivienne,” she said pointedly.

           “The same as you and your Inquisition, my dear. To confront the chaos, and meet my enemy head-on. I think that is something _you_ can understand.”

           “Pretty words for a pretty occasion,” Kasde chided.

           Vivienne’s painted smile vanished in an instant. All warmth fled her eyes, becoming every bit as lifeless as the mask upon her face. “Make no mistake, Herald,” she hissed, “I won’t wait quietly for death. You can either accept my help, or not. The choice is yours.”

           The nervous knot in Kasde’s gut suddenly began to loosen. Breaking through the First Enchanter’s thick veneer offered refreshing insight. She could play it buttoned up, but underneath, Vivienne was just as angry and wild as she.

           Pushing off the wall, Kasde extended one gloved hand in her direction. “All right, Madame de Fer,” she hummed. “Welcome aboard.”

           Hesitating only long enough for dramatic pause, Vivienne took her hand firmly. “Good things are coming, my dear,” she nearly sang. “That, I can promise you.”

           Kasde sniffed dismissively. The woman was a viper, that much was certain. She had gotten precisely what she wanted, at least for now. Only time would tell what endgame First Enchanter Vivienne sought. As she left the chateau that night, Kasde vowed to keep one eye on her newest ally.

At all times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're finishing up companions this week!  
> Sorry if it's dragging right now; I want to stay as true to the game as I can when dealing with cannon bits.  
> By the way, if there's something you'd like to see, didn't like, etc, drop me a comment. I'd love to hear from you. :)


	18. No Rest for the Wicked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kasde learns that heroes really don't get naps.

           Kasde shuffled up the worn steps, sneering rudely at the carved mabari to her left. Her feet ached, her back felt as though it would snap in two, and her pack was much heavier than she remembered. She was tired, and that was the truth of it. Well and thoroughly tired, and in no mood for anything but a warm bed and a long nap.

           The Maker, of course, saw that as a challenge.

           “Your kind killed the Most Holy!”

           “Lies! _Your_ kind _let_ her die!”

           Rolling her eyes skyward, she let out a quiet curse. How grown adults could act like such children was beyond her. She’d thought her efforts were making progress, but when she returned, she was greeted by shouting and squabbling. The Inquisition, it seemed, wasn’t so different from family. Adjusting the strap of her pack, she trudged up the steps, toward the growing racket.

           It was a blessing that Cullen was there to diffuse the situation, raising his own voice to be heard. He gave everyone a _thorough_ reminder that they were all on the same side, regardless of origin. The mage and Templar who had started the entire mess were sent running with their tails between their legs, as though he’d boxed their ears.

           The Commander bowed his head as she approached, returning her grateful smile in kind.

           “Welcome back, Herald,” he grinned, but it rapidly soured. “Chancellor Roderick.”

           Kasde bit back a groan. Sure as a sunrise, the Cleric appeared, wading through the dispersing crowd with purpose.

          “I’m curious, Commander, as to how your Inquisition and its ‘Herald’ will restore order,” he asked, rather loudly.

          Cullen beat her to it. “I’ll bet you are.” He glared at the troops still loitering. “Back to your duties, all of you!”

          Chancellor Roderick crossed his arms, lightly tapping his foot in the dirt. “I await your answer, Commander,” he sneered. “Or perhaps, the _Herald_ will enlighten me.”

          Kasde forced herself to smile, although it didn’t feel convincing. She was much too tired to pull it off. “Cullen,” she said through painfully gritted teeth. “Tell me again why he’s still here.”

          “He’s toothless,” Cullen sniffed. “No point turning him into a martyr just because he runs at the mouth.”

          “Mmm, tempting, but true,” she admitted. “Haven’t you done enough, Chancellor?”

          Roderick gestured around them, as though that was answer enough. “It would appear not.”

          “Mages and Templars were already at each other’s throats,” Cullen disagreed. “Now they’re blaming each other for the Divine’s death. Different field, same battle.”

          “Which is why we need a _proper_ authority to lead them back to order!”

          Cullen snorted. “Who, you? Random Clerics who weren’t important enough to be at the Conclave?”

          Kasde choked on her laughter, poorly attempting to mask it with a polite cough. At least _she_ hadn’t been the one to say it.

          Chancellor Roderick sighed loudly. “The rebel Inquisition, with its so-called ‘Herald of Andraste’? I think not.”

          “If the _proper_ authority,” Kasde snapped, mocking his use of the word, “hadn’t failed, we could have avoided this mess. As it happens, I don’t see much ground for you to stand on, Chancellor.”

          “We must elect a new Divine, and await Her orders,” Roderick insisted. The words had become somewhat of a mantra for him of late. “If you are innocent, the Chantry will establish it as so.”

          “Or will be happy to use someone as a scapegoat,” Cullen muttered.

          Roderick’s face reddened. “You think no one cares about the truth?” he huffed. “We all grieve Justinia’s loss.”

          “But you won’t grieve if the Herald of Andraste is conveniently swept under a carpet,” Cullen growled, baring his teeth.

          The two men glared at each other silently for a several agonizing moments. It was a rather dominant display for the Commander, like a lion eying a kill. Pathetic on Roderick’s behalf, as he had neither the stature nor the character for it. Ego alone was not enough for posturing.

          Kasde thumbed her nose. “Well.”

          Neither man budged.

          “This is all very…masculine,” she grumbled, “but, as I’m sure you’re aware, I’ve been off saving the world from itself.” She let out an exaggerated yawn, fanning her mouth demurely. “Tiring work, that. Think I’ve earned myself a bit of a kip.”

          Chancellor Roderick said nothing, but his expression twisted into a dark scowl.

          Kasde shifted her pack and patted Cullen on the shoulder. “Try not to let anyone burn the village down.”

          He snorted. “I will do my best.”

          She didn’t envy him the Chancellor’s company, not one bit. He was a yammering blowhard, and his sad devotion to a broken institution was no better. She shouted down plenty of whiny, self-entitled prats that sloughing one off on one of her advisors put an impish spring in her step. Let someone else sit in her shoes for a day. The fact that is was Cullen only sweetened the pot.

          “Excuse me?”

          Kasde stopped abruptly. The snarl that bubbled up her throat was obscenely loud. “ _What?”_

          The soldier looked fairly alarmed, straightening sharply. “Lieutenant Cremisius Aclassi, ma’am,” he said, offering a small bow. “I’ve a message to deliver, but I’m having a hard time getting anyone to talk to me.”

          “Eh, if only I were so lucky.”

          “I’m sorry?”

          She waved her hand dismissively. “Nothing. You said you had a message?”

          “Yes, ma’am. I’m here on behalf of the Bull’s Chargers mercenary company. We caught word of some Tevinter troops gathering on the Storm Coast.”

          Kasde canted her hip. “And I take it you’re looking for work.”

          “My company commander, The Iron Bull, offers the information free of charge.”

          “Uh-huh. And the catch?”

          The lieutenant smiled. “If you’d like to see what the Bull’s Chargers are capable of, meet us there and watch us work,” he replied. “If you like what you see, I’m sure we can work something out.”

          “Hmm, I suppose this offer is time-sensitive.”

          “Well, we can only kill so many before they turn tail and run.”

          Kasde grunted. “Very well. I’ll make my way to the Coast and rendezvous with your men,” she mumbled. “I just need to square some things away here first.”

          Stomping past Cullen’s post outside the Chantry, she headed toward Adan’s cabin to restock her supply of potions. The Commander raised an eyebrow inquisitively.

          “No rest for the wicked,” she muttered as she blew by him. “See you in a few days, Commander.”

          “I—yes. Be safe, Herald,” he rushed out. “The walls _will_ be standing when you return.” Then, under his breath, as if she wouldn’t hear, “I hope.”

          She couldn’t fight the smile that crept across her tired lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry! I'm back! These past two chapters have been KILLING me. As in, killing my writing mojo. In Hushed Whispers IS up next, and it is going to be a loooooong one. Hold onto your butts!


	19. Answers, Please.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kasde arrives in Redcliffe, and winds up with far too many questions for her liking.

A letter from the Herald to the Commander:

_~~Commander~~_

_Cullen,_

_I apologize for Sera. She can be a tad…willful. I will have words with her on the matter of putting local wildlife in your bed linens. Expect an apology cake upon our return._ Do not _eat it._

_I hope all is well. You should be expecting a mercenary company within the week. Their assistance was invaluable on the Storm Coast. I trust you will find their expertise of some use. Do not be alarmed by the Qunari; he seems a good sort. Leliana will explain._

_Sincerely,_

_KRT_

_PS – Try not to stare at him._

__________________________________________________________________

Rest was turning out to be a ridiculous notion. Three days and a pack full of sea-water sodden clothes later, Kasde found herself riding along the King’s Road toward Redcliffe. The Bull’s Chargers had proved quite capable, which came as a relief. With time and a bit of hard work, the mercenaries might just help whip Cullen’s soldiers into shape. Their commander, a towering Qunari monstrosity calling himself the Iron Bull, promised good things. The fact that he was a self-admitted spy did little to ease her mind.

           And so Kasde found herself plus one Ben-Hassrath and enough question to sink an Antivan trade ship.

           They said good help was hard to find, but it seemed to be falling from the sky in tandem with the demons. Leliana’s scouts spotted a Warden south of Redcliffe, apparently training some of the local folk. Hesitant at first, he all but leapt into the saddle at the prospect of saving the world. Kasde found it rather silly, but supposed she couldn’t judge. Her journey was based on faith. In a way, so was his.

           Sera seemed to like him well enough, belting out of tune along with him as he sang rather saucy tavern songs through the bulk of his bushy, black beard. Kasde did her best to shut out the racket; her ears were going to ring for weeks.

           She had been to Redcliffe once, as a young girl, with her family. The whole Trevelyan line paraded into the grand hall, shining faces polite and demure. _Well_ , she thought, _all but one._ Stone faced and sullen, the youngest Trevelyan, a bright-eyed, ashen-haired girl of four or five, glowered at everyone for the entirety of their stay. The would-be King of Ferelden, a shy and timid boy of eight, was a favorite target for her silent abuse.

The castle on a red hill guarded Ferelden from the grasp of Orlais. Without Redcliffe, there could be no victory, and she was stubborn as a mabari with a bone, not unlike the family that lorded over her. _We are as iron,_ if she recalled the words of House Guerrin correctly. Arl Teagan, she hoped, had long forgotten her childish antics.

It wasn’t long before an Inquisition soldier rounded the bend at alarming speed. His eyes were wide and white, and he ran as though ghosts were on his heels.

“Herald!” he cried in relief. “Up the road! We need help!”

“Slow down, lad,” she said softly. “What happened?”

He waved a frantic hand at something further up the road. “A rift! Not like one we’ve ever seen.” He paused to take several gulping breaths, bracing his hands on his knees. “We sealed the gates to protect the village, but we can’t close it.”

Kasde pursed her lips and twisted the reins between her fingers. “Make for the forward camp,” she commanded. “See to your injuries and get some rest. We’ll handle this.”

“Yes, Herald. Thank you, Herald.” The exhausted man pulled in several longer breaths, adding, “Maker keep you, Herald.”

As he ran off, Sera snickered to herself, earning a questioning glance. “Gotta be a new record, that,” she cackled. “Three heralds in one go. Poor sod almost pissed himself.”

Kasde groaned loudly, the sound swallowed up by Blackwall’s boisterous laughter.

“Who do I have to pay to get people to stop calling me that?” she muttered, and gave her horse a swift kick.

She heard the screeching long before the rift came into view. Ear-shattering, teeth-jarring screams that penetrated her very bones, vibrating painfully through her core. Pockets of green-black ooze dotted the grass.

Blackwall was the first into the fight, setting up a firm line of defense between the demons and the wounded scouts. Sera was close behind, whooping a hollering as she loosed a flurry of arrows.

“Pull back!” Kasde shouted. Slipping effortlessly into the shadows, she wove her way around the edges of the battle. Like a flicker in the corner of an eye, her blades appeared and disappeared, spraying blood and Fade water into the air. She let the heavy beating of her heart lead her steps, counting a waltz in her veins.

Suddenly, she was flung forward. The force of the blow took her feet from under her, sending her tumbling violently into the gate. She sat there, dazed, for far too long. When she blinked her pounding eyes open, her head swam.

Everything was too slow. Sera flipped out of a demon’s reach, airborne for what seemed hours. Blackwall’s shield swung through the air as though in a dream, the motion muddy and delayed. Her own heartbeat came slow and loud in her ears. How had she missed the demon behind her?

Clumsy, Kasde struggled to her feet, slipping in the black slick splattered across the ground. Time snapped back in on itself with near audible pop, making her stomach lurch.

“What in the hell?” she wondered aloud. Shaking the thick liquid from her fingers, she glanced about for her weapons.

“Watch it!”

She reeled back at Sera’s call, barely avoiding a clawed hand as it struck at her face. Her foot splashed into the puddle she had risen from, and her vision jarred. With some effort, she tore herself free, diving out of harm’s way. Her fingers gripped warm steel, and her heart sang.

“Stay out of the pools!” she cried. “There’s something wrong with the rift!”

“Then _close_ it already!”

Fourteen rifts, and the feeling was no more tolerable than the first time. Experience had taught Kasde to plant her feet, at the very least, so the tethering energy wouldn’t rip her off the ground. The scar on her hand burned, and she gritted her teeth against the pain. She imagined her hand, wrapped around the rift, and squeezed. The tear bowed and warped in on itself, closing with a final, wet splash.

“Bits down, face up!” Sera screeched, jumping wildly onto Blackwall’s shoulders. The Warden grunted as she nearly toppled him, but said nothing. He had an odd sort of patience with the elf, not unlike an older brother tolerating an obnoxious little sister.

“What,” Kasde gasped out, “in the name of Andraste was that?”

“Who cares?” Sera mumbled. “They’re dead, we’re not. I call that a win.”

The Herald shook her head sharply, trying to snap her senses back into focus. Whatever had happened, it hadn’t been normal. Never had a rift bent time around itself. _Are they adapting?_ she wondered. That alone would have made her skin crawl, but there was…something else. She knew it by the nervous twinge in her gut.

“Come on,” she urged, banging a fist against the gate, “and keep your eyes open.”

Sera used her fingers to force her eyes wider and stuck out her tongue.

Blackwall chuckled dryly, “Charming.”

The hinges squealed as the gate opened, revealing a handful of relieved Inquisition faces. They left their horses with the troops, and continued up the road.

“Hey, Herald?”

Kasde sighed. “Yes, Sera?”

“We’re here to get the mages, yeah? Make ‘em bow and kiss your shoes or somethin’?”

“That’s not…” She closed her eyes and sucked in a calming breath. “No.” At Blackwall’s laughter, she snapped, “You _could_ try helping.”

“Ah, you seem to have everything in hand,” he chuckled.

A loud, shrieking laugh burst from Sera’s mouth. “ _In hand!”_ she snorted. “Good one, Beardy!”

Kasde smiled wickedly in the elf’s direction. “Yes, Sera. In hand. You know, like the toads you slipped into Cullen’s bed last week.”

“And how do _you_ know what’s in Commander Stuffybritches’s bed?”

Her cheeks heated instantly. “It’s not—We’re not—It isn’t—” She growled in frustration. “Do it again, and I’ll let Vivienne use you for target practice.”

Sera’s eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t.”

“Won’t know ‘til you try.”

Blackwall scratched his beard. “I don’t know, Sera,” he hummed. “She sounds serious.”

The elf peered suspiciously at the Herald, squinting her too-large eyes and wrinkling her nose. After a moment, she threw her hands into the air, stomping her feet in the dirt.

“Frig!” she bellowed. “Arse-biscuit, piss, _frig!_ You’re no fun.”

Kasde feigned offense, clapping a hand across her chest. “Now who’s being hurtful?”

The Warden’s large hand caught her shoulder, dragging her to an abrupt stop. Someone was running down the hill toward them. The air was deathly still.

“Not to spoil your fun, ladies,” he said, “but I think that means trouble.”

“Unfortunately,” Kasde muttered, “I think you’re right.”

The sun caught on the running man’s orange sash, the blazing eye of the Inquisition knitted across the fabric. He removed his helmet and dropped to one knee, much to Kasde’s increasing ire.

“My Lady Herald,” he spouted, “it’s good to see you. But you should know, no one here was expecting us.”

Confusion clouded Kasde’s face. “I beg your pardon?” she asked. “Not even Grand Enchanter Fiona?”

“If she was, she hasn’t told anyone,” the soldier replied. “We’ve made use of the tavern for any negotiations.”

The Herald glanced at her companions, gauging their reactions. Her gut, it seemed, was seldom wrong.

“Agent of the Inquisition?”

Kasde’s head snapped up. One of the mages, apparently, had followed. His skin was pale and devoid of color, a trait common to those who spent their lives shuttered away within the Circles. She frowned. He likely wasn’t even a fighter, just some scholar unfortunate enough to be swept up in the chaos.

“Aw, fuckin’ elfy,” Sera groaned, catching sight of his large, pointed ears.

“My apologies,” the mage said. His gloves were a size too big, and he rolled the loose material almost compulsively around the pads of his fingers. “Magister Alexius is in charge now, but he hasn’t yet arrived.”

“Magister?” Kasde coughed out.

“Yes, ma’am. He’s expected shortly. You can speak with the former Grand Enchanter in the meantime.”

“Hold on, _former_?” Stepping forward, she opened her mouth to speak, but the poor, frightened mage turned and bolted back the way he had come. “Andraste’s flaming sword, what is going _on_?” she demanded.

“You said the Grand Enchanter herself invited you?” Blackwall ventured. He seemed just as lost in the situation.

“Not just _gave_ ,” Kasde explained. “She put it in my hand herself. Shit, none of this makes any sense.”

Sera nudged her elbow playfully. “Well, let’s get on then, so things start _making_ sense again.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT TIME: In Hushed Whispers.  
> This chapter may take a bit to post, as it will be rather long, potentially two parts, and I'm out of screenshots, as I've finally caught up to Kasde's playthrough. That means UP TO DATE PICTURES.
> 
> Thanks again for reading! Your comments and kudos sustain me and keep this story going.


	20. An Unfortunate Turn of Events

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kasde meets with Magister Alexius, and doesn't like how things turn out.

           A letter from Scout Harding to the Nightingale:

_Sister,_

_Redcliffe a viper’s nest. Herald surrounded by snakes. Timing is off._

_Resting for a spell. Attempting to cleanse mages of venom._

_Please advise._

_\- H._

 _______________________________________________________________

As it happened, something was indeed very, _very_ wrong in Redcliffe. Fiona had no recollection of their meeting in Val Royeaux, and had made quite possibly the worst decision of her life. Kasde’s hopes of recruiting the rebel mages had been dashed in a single, calculated move. That, however, was not what troubled her. No, what was more concerning was the Tevinter smiling across the table at her.

Magister Gereon Alexius was a conniving, dour-faced man with far too high an opinion of himself. How he had outplayed her – expertly, at that – was a wonder. Furthermore, why a Tevinter magister felt he had any business in Ferelden was…curious, not to mention infuriating. There were few things that irked her more than being outsmarted, and the strange circumstances surrounding his victory only worsened her mood.

“I hear you seek to seal the Breach,” Alexius said with a smirk. “No small task.”

“What can I say,” Kasde replied, flashing her own wicked grin. “When there’s a giant hole in the sky, you can hardly afford to think small.”

Blackwall cleared his throat behind her; Sera occupied herself by dragging a chair back and forth across the floor with the toe of her boot.

Kasde shifted in her seat, crossing her legs at the knees, an act her mother would have had a Blight-level meltdown over. “I haven’t seen Arl Teagan,” she remarked. “You wouldn’t happen to know his whereabouts, would you?”

“The Arl left Redcliffe shortly after my arrival. There were tensions brewing; I did not want an incident.”

“I doubt he left voluntarily,” she said pointedly, inspecting her fingernails.

Alexius’s expression darkened. “That is a serious accusation,” he warned, “one not lightly thrown about when _you_ need _my_ help.”

“I need mages,” Kasde reminded him, “plural. Not one in particular. You just happen to be standing in my way.”

“You are killing your own negotiations, Herald,” he sneered.

Suddenly, the chair Sera had been fiddling with tipped over with a violent crash. It landed several feet away, too far to have been an accident. Kasde cast a withering glance over her shoulder, but the elf merely shrugged.

“You’re a long way from home, Alexius,” Kasde said. “You’ve got your…slaves—” She spat the word out, despising its taste on her tongue. “But you’re still here. Why, I wonder?”

“Not slaves, my dear. Our southern brethren have no legal rights in the Imperium,” he explained. “As they were not born citizens of Tevinter, they must work for a period of ten years before gaining full rights. Indentured, yes, but they are not _slaves_.”

“Semantics.”

Movement at the corner of her eye caught her attention. The magister’s son, Felix, stumbled into the room, eyes clouded and rolling up in their sockets. His knees buckled, and she moved to catch him. As he fell into her arms, Kasde felt something brush her side. Nothing deadly, she noted with surety, and so she ignored it for the time being.

Alexius, on the other hand, was crazed.

He bolted from his chair, surprisingly quickly for a man of his years, and moved to his son’s side. “Are you all right?” he demanded.

Felix nodded weakly. “I think so,” he replied. Turning his eyes to Kasde, he added, “I apologize, My Lady. Please, forgive me.”

“Come, we’ll fetch your powders,” Alexius insisted, wrenching the younger man from her grip. “You must excuse me, friends, but we will have to continue this another time.”

Kasde frowned, but nodded agreeably.

Alexius quickly ushered his son toward the door. “Fiona, I require your assistance back at the castle,” he went on. “I will send word to your Inquisition. We will conclude this business at a later date.”

Grand Enchanter Fiona cast an apologetic glance at the Herald and her companions before dutifully falling in step behind her new master.

“Oh,” Kasde whispered, “you can _count_ on it.”

Once the door had closed, and they were alone, she reached into her sash and retrieved the note Felix had subtly passed to her. Reading it carefully, she snorted to herself before passing the scrap of parchment to Sera.

“Come to the Chantry, you’re in danger,” Kasde said aloud. “That sound like a trap to you?”

The elf rolled the paper between her fingers and checked the other side. “Someone’s being all sneaky,” she muttered.

“I think you’re right,” Blackwall rumbled, keeping his eyes fixed on the door. “Something’s not right, and I don’t trust that Tevinter.”

“Neither do I,” Kasde agreed, “but I can’t make a move until I know what he’s up to.” She rolled her neck and shoulders, trying to shake the tension from her body. “I _hate_ not knowing everything.”

Blackwall barked out a laugh. “I imagine our spymaster feels the same.”

Kasde moved toward the door. Eyes tracked her movement, some terrified, some downright resentful. Raising her voice to be heard above the chatter, she hollered, “Any of you not keen on licking a magister’s boots, there’s an Inquisition camp just up the road. They’ll take care of you.” She shoved the tavern door open, spilling harsh daylight across the dirty floor. “The rest of you,” she muttered, “carry on.”

As she and her companions descended the stairs, Kasde scratched her head, deep in thought. She still couldn’t figure _how_ Alexius had beaten her to the rebel mages. Had he been in Ferelden the whole time, lying in wait, or was he responsible for the explosion at the Conclave? Perhaps she was overthinking the matter, and he simply arrived at a convenient time.

She snorted. _Unlikely._

Sera kicked a pebble from the topmost step, and it careened toward Kasde’s ear. Her hand moved, her shoulder dropped, and she snatched the rock out of the air like an arrow striking a bird in flight. She cast the elf a knowing look before tossing the pebble into the underbrush.

“Piss! I’m gonna get you sooner or later.”

“Unlikely,” Kasde sang, scuffing the sole of her boot across the stone. She cast her eyes to the sky, squinting against the sun. “Any of that make sense to either of you?”

“Haven’t the foggiest,” Sera mumbled as she hopped onto the wall. “Seems like a right arse, if you ask me. Somethin’ up his sleeve.” She kept pace with the Herald and the Warden, holding her arms out wide to maintain her balance.

“I don’t like it,” Blackwall said, adjusting the strap of his shield over his shoulder, “but we’re short on options. Best have a look about the Chantry.”

“Which could be a trap,” Kasde reminded him.

“Or maybe Felix doesn’t like what Daddy’s up to,” Sera suggested.

“Either way,” Blackwall continued, “we keep our guard up and eyes sharp.”

Kasde grumbled irritably to herself. The entire situation sent all the alarms in her head ringing, and she couldn’t shake her unease. The Chantry sat on the other end of the garden, just up the hill. Her faith told her to take comfort, but her gut screamed at her to run, and never stop.

“Just once,” she griped, “I’d like to know what I’m walking into.”

“Maybe you shoulda asked the Maker for a map, instead of a glowy hand,” Sera giggled.

Kasde made a disgusted sound and stomped into the garden. Trap or no, she would have answers, or someone was going to end up bloody.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The set up is turning out to be multiple chapters, but we ARE getting there. I'd rather do it in multiple chapters than drag it on in one behemoth of a chapter and bore you all.  
> UP NEXT: Dorian


	21. Friends in Unlikely Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kasde meets our favorite, sassy mage.

“It’s about time! Help me close this, would you?”

           Kasde stood, dumbfounded, just inside the door. Her jaw hung open, eyes wide and blank, as she watched a very obviously Tevinter mage battle back the demons pouring from a rift in the center of the Chantry hall, with no help but his own. Flame whipped across the room, scorching the broken pews and pillars. Sera gulped loudly and cowered behind the Herald. Her fingernails dug painfully into Kasde’s shoulders.

           “Any moment now!” the Tevinter bellowed.

           Blackwall peeled the elf’s fingers away, and cast Kasde a reassuring glance. “When you’re ready,” he said quietly. He shifted his shield in front of her, guiding Sera to cover behind his towering frame.

           Together, they moved into the room. Kasde stayed behind the shield as best she could, thankful – not for the first time – for her small frame. When they reached the rift, Blackwall broke off to defend her position. He crashed into a looming horror with a challenging roar, giving both Kasde and the Tevinter room to maneuver.

           Two rifts in a matter of hours took its toll. Kasde’s skin prickled painfully, and her muscles strained against the pull of her mark. Something in her shoulder twinged, drawing a startled gasp from her.

The rift popped and snapped shut, and Kasde sagged against a nearby pillar, absently rubbing her smarting shoulder.

“Magnificent!”

The Tevinter stood on the dark patch of floor below where the rift had once been, examining the empty air with childlike curiosity. It was an alarming, and oddly charming, sight.

“That’s one word for it,” Kasde grumbled. She shook her marked hand violently.

“Downright creepy, more like.” Sera emerged from her hiding place, hugging her middle. She jutted her chin toward the mage. “Whatsit with him?”

The Herald gestured tiredly, head sagging in defeat, as though to say ‘ask him.’

“How does that work, exactly?” the mage rambled on, delightfully oblivious. “You don’t even know, do you? You just—” He wiggled his fingers in air. “—and boom, rift closes.”

“That’s about it.” Kasde eyed him evenly. He was confident, a trait all magisters seemed to have in spades, but his presence didn’t put her on edge in the way Alexius had. “Mind telling me who you are?”

The Tevinter bowed apologetically. “Ah, getting ahead of myself again. I am Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous.”

“And you’re a magister.”

His lip curled in disgust. “All right. Let’s say this once,” he snapped. “I am a mage from Tevinter, but not a member of the magisterium. I know you southerners use the terms interchangeably, but that only makes you sound like barbarians.”

Kasde blinked several times. “Right,” she managed at last. _Arrogant, too._

Dorian leaned his staff against the wall and offered the Herald a hand. She hesitated, eyes flicking to every fold of his silken robes. Ridiculous, she realized after a moment. If he wanted her dead, he didn’t need a blade to do it.

Still somewhat reluctant, she accepted his help. “I was expecting to meet Felix.”

“I’m sure he’s on his way. He was to pass you the note, then meet us here. Alexius is, no doubt, being a mother hen,” Dorian explained. “Felix, you see, is an only child.”

“Is there something wrong with him?” Kasde asked. “Alexius couldn’t jump to his side fast enough when he pretended to faint.”

The Tevinter shrugged. “He’s had some lingering illness for a matter of months,” he replied. “But we’re not here to talk about _Felix_. We’re here because you need help with Alexius.”

“Let me guess, you have some sort of insight that will help me outplay him.” Her tone was cold. Crossing her arms, she shook her head, “I’m not a fool, and I won’t be taken for one.”

“I gathered as much when you followed the note, rather than burning it,” Dorian chuckled. “I’ll be plain with you. You know there’s danger, or you wouldn’t be here.” His dark eyes twinkled mischievously. “Let’s start with Alexius claiming the allegiance of the rebel mages out from under you. As if by magic, yes?”

“Next you’ll tell me he manipulated time to get here first,” Kasde muttered.

“That’s precisely what he did.” Dorian’s expression sobered. “To reach Redcliffe before the Inquisition, Alexius distorted time itself.”

“You’re joking.”

“Hardly.”

Kasde shifted her feet nervously. “I hope that’s less dangerous than it sounds.”

“More.”

Sera swore explosively.

Towing at the ruined floor, the Herald chewed her lip in thought. “You’re asking me to take a lot on faith,” she said.

“The rift you closed here?” Dorian motioned to the space around them. “You saw how it twisted time around itself – sped some things up and slowed others down.”

“Like the one outside the gate,” Blackwall noted.

Dorian nodded. “Soon, there will be more like it, and they will appear further and further from Redcliffe,” he continued. “The magic Alexius is using is _wildly_ unstable, and it’s unraveling the world.”

Sera scoffed. “Melodramatic, that one.”

Kasde chanced a look in the mage’s direction. She wanted to trust him, but had no way of knowing if he was involved in Alexius’s scheming. It was too convenient. A covert message, a betrayal from within… It stank of bad outcomes.

“Why,” she asked, “should I believe you?”

“Magister Alexius was once my mentor – as in, no longer,” Dorian answered. “My assistance should be valuable, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

“That only makes me question your loyalty further, not trust you,” Kasde said.

“I know what I’m talking about!” the Tevinter hissed. “I helped _develop_ this magic.”

She blinked. “Come again?”

Dorian began to pace the length of the room, his expression dark and angry. “When I was still his apprentice, it was pure theory,” he explained. “Alexius could never get it to work. But _why_? Ripping time to shreds just to gain a few hundred lackeys?”

“He didn’t do it for them.”

Felix emerged from the shadows, looking no worse for wear. Whatever condition Dorian had spoken of clearly did not ail him at present, which only confirmed that his episode in the tavern had been an act.

“Took you long enough,” Dorian jeered. “Is he getting suspicious?”

“No,” Felix replied, “but I shouldn’t have played the illness card. I thought he’d never stop fussing.”

Kasde butted between them, slicing her hand through the air. “Would either of you care to explain just _why_ you’re betraying Alexius?”

“My father’s joined a cult. Tevinter supremacists. They call themselves Venatori.” Felix straightened his robes, and obvious nervous tick. “Whatever he’s done for them, he did it to get to you.”

“Felix tells me they’re obsessed with you,” Dorian added. “Perhaps your ability to close the rifts? You could prove a threat.”

“If the Venatori are behind the rifts, or the Breach in the sky, they’re more dangerous than I thought.” The younger Alexius bowed his head. “I love my father,” he whispered, “and I love my country, but this? Cults? Time magic? It’s madness. For his own sake, you have to stop him.”

Dorian made a dismissive sound. “It would also be nice if he didn’t rip a hole in time. There’s already one in the sky.”

“All this for me?” Kasde mused. “And here I didn’t get Alexius anything.”

Dorian snorted. “Get him a fruit basket. Everyone loves those.” Shaking his head, he more seriously added, “You know you’re his target. Expecting a trap is the first step in turning it to your advantage.”

“Are we really buying this?”

Kasde growled lowly, “Sera, hush.”

“And what will _you_ do?” Blackwall demanded. His trust, it seemed, was harder to buy.

“I can’t stay in Redcliffe. Alexius doesn’t yet know I’m here, and I want to keep it that way, at least for now,” Dorian replied. “But whenever you’re ready to deal with him, I want to be there. That’s the catch.”

Kasde looked him over, nodding pleasantly. “We’ll be in touch, then.”

With a sweeping bow and a rush of white silk, Dorian took his leave. He paused at the side entrance and glanced back. “Oh, and Felix?” he called. “Do try not to get yourself killed.”

“There are worse things than dying, Dorian.” There was a hint of sadness, perhaps even regret, in his voice.

Try as she might, it was a sound Kasde would never forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UP NEXT: Kasde gets a surprise visit at camp.


	22. An Ambitious Plan

            _Maker, what are you sending me into?_

           Kasde’s boots shuffled along the dirt road. It was a terrible habit, she knew, but it helped her think. The sound of loose gravel scuffing the soles quieted the voices of fear and doubt in her head. Maker knew she had enough of both recently to send her mind spinning. No one scolded her, or called it improper, so she kept on at it, idly kicking her feet off the ground as she walked.

           “Hey, Herald?”

           And, like that, her concentration shattered.

           “Yes, Sera?”

           The elf twirled an arrow deftly between her fingers, spinning it tail over tip in a never-ending loop. Her brow was wrinkled in thought, as though she was attempting to puzzle something out. She opened her mouth, frowned, and clamped it shut again. Sticking out her bottom lip, she grunted quietly to herself, but said nothing.

           Kasde sighed heavily. “ _What_ , Sera?”

           “I been thinkin’, yeah?” The elf narrowed her eyes and twirled her arrow at her companions. “No jokes, the lot of you. Do we really think those Tevinters are turnin’ on their own?”

           “I don’t see why not,” Blackwall replied. “If someone you loved was out of control, wouldn’t you want to stop them?”

           “You have to love someone to say they’re wrong?” she snapped. “Daft’s daft, don’t need to be family to see it.”

           “I’m not saying I trust either of them,” Kasde interjected. “It seems…too convenient. But I’ve been wrong before.”

           Sera spun on her heel so she was walking backward, a bit too gracefully. “So?”

           “So,” Kasde ground out, “we see how things play out. Expect them to double-cross us.”

           “You don’t get far not trustin’ anyone,” the elf pointed out.

          “I’ve never been disappointed expecting the worst.”

          Sera glanced over her shoulder at the Herald, and he face suddenly went pale. “Yeah?” she muttered. “Were you expectin’ _that_?”

          Kasde followed her stare to the small circle of tents just ahead. The camp itself wasn’t strange; it was the two extra horses hobbled near the woods, and a particular blond head poking up over the red fabric.

          “Maker’s balls,” she cursed. “What does _he_ want?”

          “You told him I was sorry about the frogs, right?”

          “Sera, I _just_ _got_ the letter about the frogs.”

          The elf let out a petrified squeak.

          The Commander’s head swung up at the sound of their approach. His face was grim, which only served to send Sera further into hysterics.

          “She said I was sorry, yeah?” she rambled. “Cos I am. Sorry. About the frogs.”

          Cullen let out a pained groan. “Sera, another time, perhaps. I’ve other matters to attend to.”

          “Yeah!” She bobbed her head excitedly. “But if you forget, that’s fine, too. Then we can skip the whole yellin’ at me bit.” Before anyone could argue further, she disappeared into one of the tents, giggling madly to herself.

          Blackwall excused himself quietly, giving the Herald a reassuring pat on the shoulder as he passed.

          She couldn’t help but be sour, but such was her lot. Meetings and lectures took the place of rest.

          “So, that’s Warden Blackwall, then?”

          Cullen’s voice snapped her back to attention.

          A bit awkwardly, she cleared her throat. “Ah, yes,” she replied. “His help has been invaluable, but I’m afraid we’re no closer to finding the other Wardens.”

          “He doesn’t know where they are?”

          Kasde shook her head. “Says he was recruiting alone. Hang on,” she said, and eyed him strangely. “What are you doing here?”

          “I beg your pardon?”

          “You. Here. In my camp. Shouldn’t you be in Haven, I don’t know, calibrating trebuchets or scaring recruits?”

          Cullen frowned. “You have a very poor idea of what it is I do, Herald. I am, first and foremost, your advisor.”

          “And not the only one,” a voice sang from behind.

          Kasde whirled about to find herself face to face with Leliana, who wore a rather roguish smile.

           “Tell me Josephine’s not hiding in the bushes,” she whimpered, clapping a hand across her forehead. She was suddenly very overwhelmed.

          Leliana let out a soft, tinkling laugh. “No. Josie’s better suited back in Haven, keeping order with the nobles.”

          “And you’re not?”

          The spymaster handed her a folded missive, ignoring her question. “This arrived in Haven two days ago. I had received word of Redcliffe’s Arl departing for Denerim, but thought little of it until now. Even as we speak, he is petitioning his nephew, the King, for troops to retake the castle.”

          “That still doesn’t explain what the two of you are doing here.”

          “We didn’t have the time to wait,” Cullen insisted. “By the time you returned to Haven, matters here would have escalated out of control. So, we rode to you.”

          Kasde eased herself onto the ground with a tired grunt. She’d been on her feet for the past week; the least they could do was let her rest while they talked.

          “All right,” she said. “Here’s where we stand. The mages have sworn themselves to Tevinter. Magister Gereon Alexius, who manipulated the flow of time to beat me here.” She waved her hand flippantly at the dead campfire. “Advise me on _that_.”

          “Maker’s Breath,” was all Cullen managed to come up with.

          “You’re certain?” Leliana asked.

          “Well, I could explain it to you,” Dorian’s voice called, “but we both know you wouldn’t believe me.”

          The Tevinter leaned casually against a tent at the edge of the camp. His lips curved into a devious smirk, eyes sparkling with mirth. Leliana was decidedly still and silent, something that sent a sharp tingle up Kasde’s spine. Cullen, however, reached for his sword, even as the mage raised his hands in surrender.

          “Cullen, don’t!” Kasde shouted, scrambling to her feet. “He’s on our side. I think.”

          Dorian bowed gracefully, saying, “Dorian Pavus, at your service.”

          “I’ll need a better reason than that, Herald, if you don’t want me to run him through.”

          The Tevinter sauntered up to Cullen, observing him as one would a delectable treat. “Fierce, isn’t he? Tell your lion to stand down so we can talk.”

          “Keep it up, and I’ll let him eat you.”

          “Darling, don’t tease,” he snickered. “It’s impolite.”

          Cullen was reluctant to release his grip on his weapon, but took a step back. “One move, mage,” he growled, “that’s all it will take.”

          Dorian rolled his eyes and let out an exasperated sigh.

          Kasde began unbuckling her weapons belt, making a grand show of it in hopes of the Commander taking the hint. Carefully setting her daggers on the ground, she stepped away, ignoring how distressingly naked she suddenly felt.

          “Easy,” she crooned, and watched with no small amount of relief as Cullen attempted to relax. “Dorian’s the one who tipped me off. Alexius joined some… _cult_ —”

          “Venatori,” the mage offered.

          “Venatori, right. They could be responsible for the rifts, the Breach, all of it. We can’t let them have the rebel mages.”

          Leliana’s expression was tight. “I agree,” she said, “and we can’t allow a foreign power to remain on Ferelden’s doorstep. We must do something.”

          The distinct lack of response from Cullen did not go unnoticed. His eyes, hard and angry, flicked between the three of them, as though he were the only sane person among them.

          “No,” came his one-word reply.

          “I know you don’t think it will work, but we _need_ the mages,” Kasde pleaded.

          “No,” he repeated, more firmly. “We can still approach the Templars. They could—”

          She threw her hands into the air with a frustrated cry. “We’ve already had this discussion!”

          “And _I_ thought we were on the same page!” he barked. “You said it yourself, pouring magic into the mark could kill you – could kill all of us. Why are you ignoring that fact now?”

          “Are you angry I’m not on your side, or that we don’t have a choice?”

          Cullen snarled, “There are no _sides_ , Herald, only choices, and as your advisor, I cannot, in good conscience, support this!”

          “As much as you may not wish to hear it,” Leliana said, separating them, “we have few options. Allowing Tevinter control of Ferelden’s mages is not one of them.”

          He let out a heavy sigh. “I know.” He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I trust you have a plan, then?”

          The spymaster nodded coolly. Of course, she had a plan, Kasde knew. There wasn’t a move she could make that Leliana had not thought up and planned for. That knowledge should have reassured her, but instead left a rapidly increasing knot in the pit of her stomach.

          “This Alexius,” she began, “he wants the Herald, no? Why not give her to him?”

          The Herald and Commander asked in unison, “I beg your pardon?”

          “He’s asked for you by name, correct? Nothing else will do.”

          “Redcliffe Castle is one of the most defensible fortresses in Ferelden,” Cullen argued. “It’s repelled thousands of assaults. If she goes in there, she dies, and we lose our only means of sealing the rifts. I won’t allow it.”

          “I doubt Alexius will be keen on having negotiations on the draw bridge,” Dorian sniffed.

          “Stay out of this,” Cullen hissed.

          “Right. I’ll just stand here and watch you three prattle on, when you already know what needs to be done.” The mage shook his head. “The risk to the Herald is great, I know, but it cannot be avoided. I will go with her.”

          Cullen snorted. “Somehow, that doesn’t comfort me.”

          “No, this is good,” Kasde said, an idea sparking in her mind. “If he ends up crossing me, I’ll kill him myself. Saves us the trouble of hunting him down, right?”

          “Wonderful!” Dorian crowed. “You’re all mad!”

          Leliana cleared her throat politely. “As I was saying, I do not intend to assault the keep. It would take too long for our troops to arrive and, as you said, it would likely fail.”

          “What do you propose then?” Cullen asked.

          “There is a secret entrance into the castle, an escape route for the family. We could send several agents through.”

          “It’s too risky,” he disagreed. “They’ll be discovered long before they reach the Magister.”

          “Which is why we give Alexius the envoy he so desperately wants.”

          Kasde’s spine straightened abruptly. _Bait?_ she thought, _They’re using me as_ bait _now? Maker, how can this day get any worse?_ She bit down on the inside of her cheek to keep from screaming.

          The Commander made an agreeable sound, his brow furrowed as his tactical mind worked the plan over. “Risky,” he said again, “but it could work.”

          She cast him wide-eyed stare, betrayed.

          “And if you let me help,” Dorian suggested, “I can get your men past Alexius’s magic.”

          Leliana clasped her gloves hands together. “Then, it’s settled. I will scramble what agents I have in the Hinterlands; we move tonight.”

          The will to scream intensified. Was she afraid? Terrified. Was she nervous? Certainly. But most of all, she was exhausted, and a tired mind made for a sloppy fighter. How could they expect her to be at her best when she hadn’t had a good night’s rest in days? She glanced at Cullen. Judging by the dark circles under his eyes, he hadn’t slept much himself.

          Nodding, she put on her best reassuring smile. “Right,” she said. “Tonight, then,” and turned to leave.

           Cullen’s armored fist clenched around her wrist. “Herald,” he choked out. “Kasde. You will come back.”

           His words startled her, his voice soft, like it had been the day of their argument. It wasn’t a request, but a quiet plea.

           She let the corner of her mouth twitch ever so slightly upward. “Is that an order, Commander?” she asked. “Or a personal request?”

           His cheeks pinked. “Maker’s Breath, that’s not what I—”

           “Don’t be so serious; I’m only teasing,” she giggled. “I will come back.”

           “Make sure you do.”

           She shoved him playfully. “Oh, stuff it, Rutherford.” Then, stabbing her index finger into his chestplate, she added, “ _You_ better make sure I do.”

           He seemed to take that to heart, for he nodded stiffly, saying, “I will, I promise you that.”

           She left the planning to her advisors. That was, after all, what they were there for. Her role was small enough – significant, but small. She only needed play her part long enough for Leliana’s agents to bypass the warding and reach her. If they failed, she was as good as dead, but she had faith. Not just in Leliana, or her men, or even the plan itself. She had faith that if things went to the Void in a handbasket, Cullen Rutherford would kick down the Veil itself to bring her back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please keep your eyes on the tags, they will be getting updated within the next chapter or two. Trigger warnings will be posted in the description.
> 
> UP NEXT: The plan is set in motion.


	23. In Hushed Whispers Part I

           A brief nap saw the Herald rejuvenated – at least as well as she could be, all things considered. Still, her gut twisted and roiled painfully, and her palms were sweaty inside her gloves. The only comfort, and a small one, was the cool touch of steel as her fingers wrapped around the hilt of her dagger.

           Blackwall had spent the dull hours before sharpening his blade; Sera, making arrows. Dorian provided a shockingly concise explanation of any warding Leliana’s men might encounter. All the while, Cullen paced from one end of camp to the other, clearly irritable over being told to sit and wait. With no troops to command and a distinct lack of stealth, the spymaster had him effectively sidelined.

           As they readied themselves to leave, Cullen voiced his concerns for what seemed the hundredth time.

           “I know,” Kasde said, keeping her voice low enough that the others would not hear. “I don’t like it either. Makes my shoulder blades itch.” She shook herself for emphasis.

           “Then why are we doing this?” he asked.

           “We are not having this discussion again, Cullen. It’s like a dog chasing its tail with you.” She crossed her arms, canting her hip to the side. “I can’t make this comfortable for you, but your fretting is putting me on edge. I can practically _hear_ your teeth grinding.”

           A small smile tugged at his scarred mouth. “I just… Remember what I said.”

           Her eyes were patient, glimmering with just a hint of laughter. Holding up a finger, she turned to rifle through her pack. She stood a moment later, pressing something against his chest.

           “I’ll come back for this,” she told him, and she could see he believed her.

           It was with that promise in mind that she disappeared within Redcliffe Castle, soul heavy, but heart light. The Chant came to her, as loud and clear as it ever had. She clung to it, and had faith.

           “Though I am flesh, Your Light is ever present, and those I have called, they remember, And they shall endure.”

           Sera shoved against her teasingly. “Whassat, then?” she asked. “You’re actin’ all broody-like.”

           “It’s nothing,” she replied, “Just makes me feel better.”

           The elf made a gagging sound. “You religious types, mental, the lot of you,” she droned. “But, for what it’s worth, I’d rather your brooding than a hole in the sky.”

           “Thanks, Sera.” Kasde screwed up her face. “I think.”

           Redcliffe Castle was exactly as it had been twenty years before. Kasde walked between her bannered columns as she had so long ago, and felt nothing. Her mother’s voice – her siblings’ giggles and pealing laughter – echoed in the back of her mind. Strange, she found herself thinking, how some things could change so much, while others remained the same.

           The seneschal met them just inside the main hall, disappointment plain on his pock-marked face.

           “The invitation was for Mistress Trevelyan alone,” he sneered. “The rest will wait here.”

           Kasde shrugged, and accompanied the gesture with a disapproving sniff. “Then, I’m afraid Magister Alexius will just have to wait.”

           The man frowned, clearly displeased with her lack of manners. Casting a wary glance at the individuals standing just behind her, he motioned for her to follow.

           “Lord Magister,” he said, “your guests have arrived.”

           Alexius sat before the roaring fireplace, lounging almost casually in the Arl’s seat. Felix stood nearby, his face schooled into an expression of smug disinterest. If it would not give him away, she would have applauded his performance. In the shadows, Grand Enchanter Fiona’s eyes watched, hopeful and expectant.

           “Good to see you again, my friend!” Alexius called, waving for his visitors to approach.

           Kasde thought it a bit premature to call them ‘friends’, but that was neither here nor there.

           “And your…associates, of course.” Shifting in his seat, he went on, “I’m sure we can work out some arrangement that is equitable to all parties.”

           “Spare me,” the Herald hissed. “I need mages to close the Breach, you have them.”

           The former Grand Enchanter took a cautious step forward. “Are we to have no voice in deciding our own fate?”

          “Fiona, you would not have turned your followers over to my care if you did not trust me with their lives,” Alexius replied, a hint of warning in his voice.

          Kasde put herself between them, and motioned for Fiona to stay back. “Of course, she trusts you,” she said. “What can I say, Alexius? You have one of those faces.”

          “Your wit does you little credit,” the magister snapped. “Shall we begin our talks?”

          She nodded, silent.

          “What shall you offer in exchange for my mages?”

          “I’d much rather discuss your time magic,” Kasde said pointedly.

          Alexius’s face paled momentarily before he managed to hide it. _Good_ , she thought, _struck a nerve._ It took some effort to not let her satisfaction get the best of her. Cornered animals were often the most deadly.

          “I’m afraid I have no idea what you are talking about,” Alexius insisted.

          It was then that Felix decided to do the most foolish thing possible. He opened his mouth and spoke, even as the knot in Kasde’s stomach hammered upward, into her throat.

          “She knows everything, Father,” he admitted.

          Alexius’s face contorted in rage. “Felix, what have you done?”

          “A father might be grateful for a son that loves him,” Kasde cried, trying to redirect his focus from the boy. “He cares for you, Alexius. Not everyone is so lucky.”

          “So says the thief!” he bellowed, bolting to his feet. “You think you can turn my son against me? You walk into my stronghold with your stolen mark – a gift you don’t even understand – and think you are in control?” His eyes hardened. “You are nothing but a mistake.”

_Mistake._ The word sliced through her, cutting deep with its jagged edges. He wasn’t the first to call her such, and he wouldn’t be the last. Kasde swallowed thickly. She needed to focus on the present.

          “What was the Breach to accomplish then?” she demanded.

          “It was to be a triumphant moment for the Elder One,” Alexius answered, “for this world!”

          “Father, listen to yourself! Do you know what you sound like?”

          “He sounds exactly like the sort of villainous cliché everyone expects us to be.”

          Dorian emerged from his hiding place behind one of the columns, his voice carrying to the farthest corners of the ceiling. Leliana’s men must have managed a way through. Either that, or the swaggering bastard had played the lot of them for fools.

          It was only for a fleeting moment, but not unnoticed, that sadness filled Alexius’s eyes. “Dorian,” he uttered, “I offered you a chance to be a part of this, and you refused me. The Elder One has power you would not believe. He will raise the Imperium from its own ashes.”

          “What’s dead should stay dead,” Kasde countered. “Why do this?”

          “Well, it’s a chance for the Imperium to really one-up that whole ‘starting the Blight’ thing,” Dorian muttered to himself.

          Alexius droned on, oblivious to the sound of their voices as his reverie took hold. “He will make the world bow to mages once more. We will rule from the Boeric Ocean to the Frozen Seas.”

          “You can’t involve my people in this!” Fiona screeched, backing away in horror.

          “This is exactly what you and I talked about _never_ wanting to happen!” Dorian pleaded. “Why would you support this?”

          Felix placed a hand on his father’s shoulder, eyes shining with tears. “Stop it,” he begged. “Give up the Venatori. Let the southern mages fight the Breach, and let’s go home.”

          “No! It’s the only way. He can save you!”

          He simply blinked back at his father, confused. “Save me?” he whispered. “I’m going to die. You need to accept that.”

          Alexius was shaking his head, over and over, muttering to himself, “There _is_ a way. The Elder One promised. If I undo the mistake at the Temple…” Abruptly, his head snapped up, and his eyes were cold and clear. “Seize them, Venatori!” he cried. “The Elder One demands this woman’s life!”

          Screams and the ring of steel filled the room. One by one, the magister’s guards dropped to the floor, their posts filled by Inquisition uniforms. Kasde’s heart took flight in her chest, and a smile broke across her face. Their plan had worked!

          “Your men are dead, Alexius,” she spat. “It’s over.”

          “You,” he snarled, “are a mistake. You should have _never_ existed!”

          Things, she would later say, did not go as planned.

          It happened before anyone could react. Someone screamed behind her, but their voice was lost in the blood pumping through her ears. Alexius lifted his hand, wreathed in the haunting, green glow of the Fade. Some manner of trinket floated in his palm.

          Dorian lunged at him, a distressed shout pealing from his mouth. The hair on Kasde’s arms prickled as the temperature in the room suddenly surged upward. The smell of static was strong in her nose.

          Dorian’s magic collided with Alexius, and the resulting shockwave knocked them to the ground. A yawning portal opened where the magister had only just stood, and Kasde had but a second to cry out before the world went black and silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bulk of these next chapters will be split into parts, as not to be overwhelming.  
> As always, your comments and kudos are SO appreciated, and I love you.
> 
> UP NEXT: Kasde and Dorian come to.


	24. In Hushed Whispers Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Implied torture, graphic depictions of violence.

           Kasde came to, elbow-deep in stagnant water and her head reeling. Her stomach lurched and, for a moment, she was afraid she would be sick. Her eyes pounded behind their lids. A steady, constant dripping ricocheted off the walls and between her ears.

           Splashing to her feet brought on a fresh wave of nausea, and she clapped a hand over her eyes. What did she remember? Her name, the date… _Andraste, Apotheosis, Benedictions, Erudition…_ She smiled weakly. At least she had avoided a concussion.

           Suddenly, her eyes snapped open. She wasn’t alone.

           Reaching for her weapons, she whirled about, sloshing noisily. Relief and confusion mingled in her gut, for Dorian stood not far off, carefully inspecting a glowing red shard of crystal almost as tall as himself.

           “Ah, you’re awake,” he noted. “Good.”

           “What’s going on?” Kasde asked. “Last I remember, we were in the castle hall…”

           The Tevinter twirled the end of his mustache around a finger, lips pursed. “Displacement? Interesting,” he muttered. “It’s probably not what Alexius intended. The rift must have moved us…to what? The nearest confluence of arcane energy?”

           She stared at him, blankly.

           “Let me see,” he continued, ignorant of her apparent lack of knowledge. “If we’re still in the castle, it isn’t…Oh! Of course!” He smacked the heel of his hand against his forehead. “It’s not simply where—it’s _when_!”

           Kasde’s jaw worked itself up and down, not unlike a fish. She simply _could not_ wrap her mind around it. “You’re not serious,” she managed at last.

           “Deadly,” Dorian replied casually. “Alexius used the amulet as a focus; it must have moved us through time!”

           “I really hope that isn’t as bad as it sounds.”

           “It sounds _terrible_ , depending on when we are and what happened while we were away.” He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “Let’s have a look around, and see where the rift took us,” he suggested. “Then we can figure out how to get back…if we can.”

           Kasde rounded on him, eyes wild. “No _ifs_ ,” she hissed. Her insides were a tangled mess of rage and terror, the latter of which taking most of her concentration to quell. The thought of being lost… She shook her head. It was time for action, not doubt.

           Dorian nodded slowly. “All right. No ifs, but we need to—”

           “Dungeon.”

           “Pardon?”

           “Dungeon,” she repeated, and gestured at the bars behind him. “Were you really so wrapped up that you didn’t notice?”

           The mage clicked his tongue, but otherwise ignored her. “I don’t even want to _think_ about what this will do to the fabric of time,” he griped. “We didn’t travel through time so much as punch a hole through it and toss it in the privy.”

           Kasde shuddered violently, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

           “Now, now, none of that,” Dorian chided. “Don’t worry; I’m here. I’ll protect you.”

           Their path through the castle was agonizingly slow. Twice, Kasde led them into a dead-end; red lyrium grew in from the ceilings, blocking doors and stairwells. The whole place reeked of mold and death. She tried to breathe through her mouth, but the taste of the air left her tongue slick with bile. Every other room was flooded, and no amount of effort shook the water from their skin.

           As they sloshed along the drainage grates, Kasde glanced at her companion. “If displacing us wasn’t what Alexius intended,” she asked, “what was he trying to do?”

           “Best guess?” Dorian shrugged. “To remove you from time completely, I suppose. If you didn’t exist, you wouldn’t have been at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, or mangled his Elder One’s plan.”

           “Oh,” she said quietly. “That’s lovely.”

           “The important thing is, you’re still here,” he pointed out. “If we can get back to our time—”

           Kasde growled lowly, clenching her fingers until her knuckles popped. “Again with the ifs.”

           “Look, I can’t give you a definite explanation. At best, I can make an educated guess.”

           “Fine, just stop saying _if_ ,” she hissed. “You’re making me nervous.”

           Dorian stopped abruptly, using his staff to block her path. His expression was every bit that of an exhausted parent. “Your little surprise in the main hall made Alexius reckless. He opened the rift before he was ready, I countered it, the magic went wild, and here we are. Make sense?”

           “No.”

           “Now you’re just being difficult.”

          “Thank you very much,” she snarled, “for ensuring I didn’t become a pile of dust.”

          Dorian grinned smugly. “That’s more like it.”

          He moved to continue on, down the hall, but she fisted her hand in his tunic. “There were other people in the hall,” she realized in horror. “Could they have been pulled in with us?”

          “It’s possible,” he admitted, “but I doubt it. Alexius wouldn’t have risked getting himself caught in the rift, much less Felix.”

          She released him sharply, splashing ahead. “We need to find them.”

          “We _need_ to—”

          “No!” she barked, jabbing her index finger in his direction. “I got them here; I’m getting them out. That is not up for debate.”

          As her boots slapped against the wet stone, one thought came to her, repeating in an endless loop.

_Maker, don’t let them suffer._

          They checked every cell they could find. Those that weren’t brimming with red lyrium were littered with corpses in varying stages of decomposition. Careful not to get too close, Kasde crouched to inspect them, dismayed at how many bore Inquisition heraldry.

          Still, there was no sign that anyone else had survived.

          “We’re wasting time,” Dorian warned. “The longer we linger, the more likely this Elder One is to find us.”

          Kasde paced between one of the cells and a table strewn with sharp, bloodied instruments. Her head throbbed, beating out a steady tattoo of _he’s right, he’s right, he’s right_ against the base of her skull. Perhaps they had gotten lucky; she and Dorian were the only ones to get dragged through the rift.

          But her gut knew better.

          “I’m not leaving them,” she bit out. She continued to pace, growing more agitated with each passing moment. “You can’t go back without me.”

          “Now you’re twisting my arm,” Dorian seethed. “We have no proof anyone was pulled in with us. We _have_ to keep moving.”

          Suddenly, there came the distant sound of weeping, and…singing?

          In a flash of yellow silk, Kasde banged through the half open door to the cell block and rounded the corner. Dorian trailed close behind, shouting all manner of curses in Tevene.

_“Andraste blessed me, Andraste blessed me…”_

          She dropped to her knees, sliding a bit in the muck and blood. A young man – no, an elf, she realized – rocked himself gently in the corner of his cell. His voice was terrifying, like two distinct versions of him sang at once, dissonant and off-key.

_“Andraste guide me, Andraste guide me…”_

          Her fingers curled around the cold, iron bars, and it was all she could do to keep from weeping. “I’m sorry,” she said softly, “but I need your help.”

          His eyes flicked up over the cover of his arms, but he did not still. He continued to rock, even as his fingers carved bloody furrows into his own skin.

          “Have you seen my friends?”

_“My tears are my sins, my sins, my sins…”_

          Dorian called from the doorway, “There’s nothing we can do for him.”

          The elf extended a shaking hand toward them, layers of dried blood and lyrium flakes coating his almost translucent skin. Gripped tightly in his fingers, like a favorite toy, was a single broken arrow. The fletching was red, the same shade used by the Friends of Red Jenny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As noted in the previous chapter, PLEASE MIND THE TAG UPDATES. Things are getting heated, and I don't want to catch you guys...too off-guard. ;)


	25. In Hushed Whispers Part III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: implied/referenced torture.  
> This chapter is VERY DARK. You have been warned.

          From scattered notes found in Redcliffe Castle:

_Subject exhibits signs of extreme emotional distress. Condition provides interesting opportunities for testing. Proceed as planned._

_Subject has proven resilient to corruption. Possible candidate for Alexius’s son. More testing required._

_Promising results. Subject’s condition manageable after a week’s worth of exposure. Spirit remains unbroken. Continuing testing._

_Tests invalid. Subject succumbed after last dose. Start from scratch._

_Result not a total loss. Subject’s condition has shown value to the Elder One. Continue treatment._

_Promising progress. Begin full regimen on the morrow._

__________________________________________________________________

           “She’s still alive!”

           Kasde bolted into the hall, ignoring Dorian’s tired sigh. Gripping the latch of the nearest door, she tugged frantically. It caught on a growth of red lyrium on the ceiling, the wood groaning in protest.

           “Stop this nonsense!”

           “No!” she cried, giving the handle another firm yank. “She’s alive!”

           Dorian’s arms flopped to his sides. “Yes, and?” he demanded. “What will you do if – _when –_ you find her?”

           “I’ll worry about that when I do!”

           With a final, vicious pull, the door swung open, raining shards of red crystal down on her head. Panting, she swiped at her hair and clothes. Varric had called the stuff evil; the less contact she had with it, the better.

           Pointing a finger into the newly revealed stairwell, she barked, “Go on ahead. See if you can find Blackwall.”

           “Need I tell you how foolish this is?” Dorian groused. “We should stick together. If we get separated—”

           A stiff shake of her head interrupted his thought. “It will take too long. I’ll find Sera. She’ll have a breakdown if she sees you…if she hasn’t had one already.” She gave her arms one last shake to rid herself of any lingering lyrium shards, saying, “I’ll meet you in the upper dungeons when I’ve found her.”

           “And if you don’t? If you’re caught?”

           “What did I tell you about _ifs_?” she snarled. “Now, get moving.”

           Without another word, she turned to the other locked door and began slamming her foot against it with alarming force. She rained blow after blow upon the wood. Her eyes were wide and panicked, those of a spooked animal. Her lips curled back over her teeth, and her breath hissed between them as each strike landed.

          Dorian paused, as though to offer words of reassurance, settling instead for, “You’d better be there when I get back.”

          Then, she was alone, with only the loud, plodding _thud_ of her boot against the door. Silently, she cursed herself for not thinking to bring her lockpicks. Fear and fury would have to do.

          The catch plate squealed and snapped free, leaving the door to bang noisily against the interior wall. Clumsily, she barreled down the stairs, nearly slipping on the mildew that coated the stone. Gooseflesh broke out over her skin as she stumbled into knee-deep water. Biting back the chatter of her teeth, she waded past the empty cells to press her shoulder against yet another door. It gave with little effort, and water surged into the room.

          A sudden, scraping sound filled her ears, and her spine went ramrod straight as she turned.

          In any dream, any life thereafter, she would have known him. The hard set to his broad shoulders, the soft heat in his bright, glowing eyes, the lewd smile crossing his lips… His skin was pale, the hollows of his cheeks dark and bruised. Thin, red veins spiderwebbed up the left side of his face. Were it not for the twisted shards of crystal protruding from his armor like perverse gilding, or the eerie red glow of his eyes, she would have thought herself dreaming.

          Kasde had only a second to register the glint of blond hair beneath the red lyrium glow, and the feral roar that tore through the room.

          His fingers fisted painfully in her hair, driving her back into the wall. She cried out as her knees buckled from the impact. Helpless, her hands flailed, scrabbling uselessly for purchase. She kicked and raged, splashing putrid water all over them, but that only made him tighten his grip.

          “Cullen!” she gasped. “Cullen, you’re hurting me!”

          His answering snarl was loud in her ears.

          “Cullen, _please!”_ Panic rose in her throat, cloying and thick, and she clung to the hand tanged in her hair, powerless.

          “Lies. You’re not real,” he spat. “This is just another trick.”

          His voice was wrong. It was twisted – perverted. His own words echoed sharply off one another, mocking him as he spoke. It was jarring, like a single string out of tune.

          Kasde squirmed, her scalp on fire. “It’s me!” she cried, forcing herself to look at him.

_Maker, have mercy; his_ eyes!

          “Stop it!” He shook her once, violently. “Don’t lie to me! She’s dead!” he bellowed. His free hand crashed into the wall, mere inches from her face. Shards of crystal squealed, shattered and sprayed into the air.

          A sharp cry escaped her as his fingers twisted tighter. “I’m not dead!” she insisted. “I’m right here. What’s _wrong_ with you, dammit?!”

          He clapped his hand over his face, wrenched with pain, and let out a pitiful, choked sound. “The song,” he moaned. “The song is _so loud._ I—I can’t block it out.”

          “What song?”

          He did not reply.

          “Cullen, what song? Answer me!”

          “The lyrium.” His jaw trembled. “Is it… Is it you?”

          “It’s me,” she assured him. “I’m here.”

          There was a brief moment of clarity in his eyes before he slammed her into the wall again. The air rushed from her lungs and she coughed, just as his other hand closed around her throat. Tiny specks of colored light dotted her vision, and she gagged.

_“Lies!”_ he thundered. “She’s dead, and I’m still here!”

          She rasped out his name, clawing at the gloved hand about her neck. “I’m not dead,” she croaked out, “I swear to you!”

          His eyes flicked across hers, drowning with confusion and dread. He pressed her into the stone, some jagged edge of his armor catching on her skin. “Not dead?” he asked in disbelief.

          Kasde nodded desperately. “Yes, Cullen, yes,” she wheezed. “That’s it. It’s me.”

          He searched her face fretfully, as though it held all the answers to his suffering.

          Softly, as not to provoke him, she asked, “Will you let me go now?”

          His fingers loosened their grip, almost hesitantly, and she sucked in a grateful breath. He stared at her through red-rimmed eyes, as though he expected her to disappear.

          “What happened to you?” she asked, gingerly rubbing her throat.

          Cullen started as though she’d struck him. “You went to Redcliffe,” he replied, “to meet with the mages. Something went wrong.” He stared dumbly down at his hands before turning away. “We received no word for three days.”

          Her stomach was suddenly very cold. “Tell me you didn’t follow me,” she whispered.

          “I did. I had to know for myself. I promised,” he said, voice ragged.

          Kasde leapt at him with a watery cry and fisted her hands in fur of his mantle. She shook him harshly for good measure, more for her own futile benefit. The sound of metal delicately chimed in the stillness, and her eyes dropped to his side. Whatever words she would have spoken died in her throat. From his belt hung a dingy leather tome on a worn chain, its pages spattered with blood. Several corners were dog-eared.

          “You said you would come back,” he lamented, “for this. You never did.”

          She backed away in horror.

          “There was… You were dead. I saw your… I could not let it stand.” He wiped a hand down his face. “I remember voices, bits and pieces. Then, nothing. Then the dark. Until the song filled my mind.”

          “Cullen, did you—” She could not bring herself to finish the thought. _Maker,_ she prayed, _tell me he didn’t give in._

          “I did not. I fought, I swear it. But you were _gone_.” The word came out a quiet sob. “What hope was there for the rest of us?”

          “How long?”

          “That was a year ago.”

          Kasde’s fists slammed against the bars and she screamed. A whole year! A year gone by, while those around her suffered. Her mind spiraled into dark despair. What good was she, if she couldn’t protect those closest to her?

           “The others?” she dared to ask.

           “Dead,” he muttered. “Most of them anyway. It doesn’t matter.”

           Her head snapped in his direction. “Of course it matters,” she wept. “ _I_ let this happen, not you, and Maker damn me if I don’t fix it.”

           “There is nothing to fix, Herald. Alexius, the Elder One… It is over.”

           Splashing over to him, she reached out for the book concealed inside his tattered cloak. His hand sprung out to catch her wrist, clearly a learned gesture.

           “You wouldn’t have kept this if you’d given up,” she told him. “That’s not the Cullen I know. Look at me.” Tugging herself free, she cupped his face in her hands. “I need you to stay with me. Do you understand?”

           His brow furrowed, those terrible, glowing eyes searching her face.

           “I need your help,” she begged. “I need you to hold it together long enough for me to get back and _make this right_. Can you do that?”

          Then, of all the damnable things he could have done, he kissed her. His lips sealed across hers like a searing brand, setting her skin ablaze. He was fire in her veins. She was distantly aware of a strangled sob, but if it was hers or Cullen’s, she could not say. His knuckles kneaded gentle patterns into her back, soothing the tension from her body. The taste of him filled her mouth, and she stiffened.

          He tasted like blood.

          After a moment, he dragged himself away, shaking his head. Balling his hands into fists, he leaned one arm against the wall. “I said I would bring you back,” he whispered. “I failed you. Never again.”

          Kasde could only nod, stunned and numb from the press of his lips.

          Cullen shuddered violently, either from the red lyrium coursing through his body or the adrenaline of renewed purpose. “Alexius keeps himself locked in the throne room. He never comes out, and no one goes in but to bring his meals.” A heavy breath escaped him. “We should get moving. I will take you to the others, Maker willing.”

          Careful not to scratch her skin with the broken shards jutting from his gauntlet, he took her by the arm and led her back up the stairs.

          “Dorian’s up there,” she blurted out.

          Cullen frowned. “The Tevinter?”

          “He’s looking for survivors.”

           He grunted quietly. “He won’t find many, but he’s headed in the right direction.”

           Kasde reached out to stop him, placing her hand on his shoulder. “Cullen, before we do this… I need to know how bad it is.”

           The wicked glow of his eyes seemed to lessen. Foolishly perhaps, she took it as a sign of Cullen seizing control. He stared ahead, unflinching and stoic in his pain. The red growths of lyrium on his shoulders pulsed nightmarishly, casting his gaunt features into shadow.

           “Whatever the suffering,” he said quietly, “I can endure it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Queue evil laughter.
> 
> Seriously though, something in me is dark and twisted, and I should be punished.  
> UP NEXT: the escape! (or will they?)


	26. In Hushed Whispers Part IV

           Despite Cullen’s assurances, Kasde maintained as healthy a distance as she could manage. Any lingering proximity to the glowing spires that grew through the plates of his armor sent a screeching song ringing through her head. More than once, she caught him murmuring to himself.

           He seemed content to remain silent, either from shame or to avoid drawing unwanted attention. His weary, bloodshot eyes flicked in her direction regularly, as if to make sure she hadn’t disappeared.

           How terrible his torment must have been, for him to look so utterly beaten.

           “You look the same.”

           She nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of his distorted voice. Cullen was staring at her intently, the fierce red glow of his eyes boring into her own.

           Swallowing the fear rising in her throat, Kasde forced herself to smile. “I suppose I do,” she said.

           “I…didn’t think I would remember.”

           “Cullen, tell me you didn’t go through all this just for some stupid promise.”

           “I take my promises very seriously,” he replied. “But you are correct. It was for…more than a promise.”

           She stared, waiting for him to elaborate.

           Cullen caught her gaze, frowned, then let out a dry snort. “Do I really have to explain it to you?” he asked. “No, it wouldn’t have been so obvious. I was a different man then; led a different life.”

           “I’m not sure I follow.”

           “I was too rigid.” He sighed tiredly. “Too concerned about what others would think. I let that fear dictate my actions.”

           Absently, Kasde’s fingers reached up to trace the tender flesh of her throat. The scene played out again in her head. She could see his eyes, startled and wild, unseeing. Behind the madness, there had been a very real terror. Whatever they had done to him, it had left deep, jagged scars.

           She knew well what such fear could do to a person.

           “Did I hurt you?”

           Her hand snapped to her side, feeling her cheeks heat. “I…N-no,” she stammered. “I’m all right.”

           He nodded, his quiet grunt loud in the waterlogged passage.

           They reached the end of the hall, and Cullen propped the door open. Gesturing for her to enter, he said, “You will find Sera below. I cannot promise you anything more than that.” He stepped aside, passing the weight of the door to the Herald.

           Kasde braced it open, but something prevented her feet from moving. She could not bring herself to leave him. “You…aren’t coming?”

           “It would be best if I stayed here,” he replied. “I’ll…scout on ahead, make sure no one’s noticed us.”

           Without another word, he disappeared, and the tight churn of her gut told her not to push the matter.

           She moved carefully, suddenly concerned with the loudness of her steps. The lyrium corruption appeared isolated to the upper levels. The glaring crystals growths coming in through the ceiling subsided the deeper she went, leaving the air thin and clear. With no small amount of relief, she realized she could, for the first time since waking up, breathe easily.

           The terrible itching of her skin lessened each passing moment, perhaps due to her distance from Cullen. Kasde resisted the urge to shiver. It was wrong. _He_ was wrong, and yet her first instinct was to run to him. _Cullen will know what to do,_ she told herself, only to recall the utter depravity of the situation. If she were honest, she wasn’t sure he could be trusted.

           She wasn’t even sure if he was _Cullen_ anymore.

           The sound of dripping water was suddenly accompanied by a continuous, tinny clanking. Kasde slowed her approach, ears pricked. From her position on the stairs, she could just barely see the violent movement of a petite foot. Someone was kicking at the bars of their cell.

           “We walked and waked where willows…no. Where willows wail, we waited… _no_. Where willows…?” A frustrated shout filled the air. “Remember, stupid! They can’t take that from you.”

           “Sera?”

           The elf’s foot stilled. Wide, almond eyes, ringed in crimson, fluttered open. “No, no, no! You can’t be here!”

           “Why not?”

           “You’re _dead,”_ she wailed, “and they don’t come back!”

           Kasde moved slowly toward her cell, voice gentle as she said, “I’m not dead, Sera. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

           “Like I’m going to believe some demon or whatever!” Sera screeched. Her voice sounded like Cullen’s; like the elf she and Dorian had discovered earlier. She backed away, pressing her body against the lyrium-encrusted wall.

           “Easy, easy. No one’s dead. Alexius used time magic—”

           Sera shook her head frantically. “Talk sense or shut it! I can’t think about him!”

           “All right.” Kasde held up her hands, making no further moves toward the clearly distressed elf. “I’m sorry if I frightened you,” she said. “I promise, it’s really me. I’m here to stop this.”

           “Stop what? Everything’s already happened.” Sera twisted her shaking fingers. “The day you died? I ran out of arrows making them pay. Then it didn’t matter anymore.”

           “It always matters, Sera.”

           “You don’t understand!”

           Kasde’s mouth snapped shut with an audible click.

           “You weren’t _there_ anymore. He’s got demons and gods and…I’ve got a bow.” Sera’s head dropped, obscuring her face behind the curtain of her overgrown hair. “And I just…I want them to hurt!” When she lifted her head again, Kasde could see pale, pink tears cutting tracks in the dirt and grime on her cheeks. “If you’re really here,” she said, “I’ll friggin’ _die_ to spit in their faces.”

           The Herald mustered the fiercest grin she could manage. “Bits up, face down?”

           “Won’t be no bits _left_ when I’m through. Open me up.”

           A cursory glance at the worn joints told her everything she needed to know. Sera had been a _very_ busy girl in captivity.

           “Stand back.”

           Bracing herself against the nearby fragments of collapsed ceiling, Kasde shifted her weight onto her back foot. It took a handful of vicious kicks, and some helpful tugging on Sera’s end, but the hinges finally gave with a pitiful squeal.

           “Best get moving. Someone’s like to have heard that.”

           Sera reached the top of the stairs first, and let out a blood-curdling scream. She rounded on her heels, barreling straight into Kasde and very nearly sending them both back down the steps in a cursing heap.

           “Sera, _what?”_ Following the elf’s frightened eyes, she muttered, “Shit.”

           Cullen stood at the opposite end of the hall, alone. Blood stained the right side of his face, strengthening the glow of his red, red eyes.

            _“Frigging bastard!”_

           Sera lunged at the Commander, thankfully unarmed. Kasde was a second too fast, and managed to wrap her arms about the elf’s middle. Spitting and cursing, Sera’s arms flailed. Her fingers clawed through the air, and it was pure luck that the Herald avoided being struck.

           Cullen said nothing, watching things unfold through miserable eyes.

           “Sera, stop!” Kasde howled. Her boots slid on the wet stone, making the difficult matter of restraining her friend monumentally harder.

           Another stream of obscenities poured from Sera’s mouth and she kicked her legs into the air. “Useless, piss-bucket, friggin’ sack of rot-sucking—”

            _“Sera!_ Enough!” Gritting her teeth, Kasde hauled the squirming woman back.

          Sera was having none of it. She wriggled free of the Herald’s grasp, pausing only to take a swing at her head. Kasde managed to duck, and planted herself between the elf and Cullen. Her breath came in heavy, ragged puffs.

          “Friggin’ _coward!”_

          “Sera!”

          “No, you weren’t there! You don’t know, so you don’t get to tell me ‘enough!’”

          Kasde swiped an angry hand through the air. “You’re right, I wasn’t, but this needs to stop. Cullen is trying to help. He’s on our—”

          Stars exploded behind her eyes, and her head snapped to the side from the force of the blow. Her teeth cut into her cheek, spilling the taste of copper across her tongue.

          Sera stood before her, elbow still crooked, breath hissing out from between her clenched teeth. Her heaving shoulders rose and fell like crashing storm-waves in the dim light.

          “You weren’t _there,”_ she repeated. “You don’t know.”

          Gingerly massaging her smarting cheek, Kasde straightened. “Then why don’t you tell me, Sera.”

          “ _He’s_ one of _them!”_ The elf gnashed her teeth. “The red ones. Every one of ‘em stuck up in their Elder One.”

          Kasde shook her head. _That can’t be._

          “The only reason Jackboot’s helping is for _them_.”

          “Sera, that’s not—”

          She leapt toward Cullen, screaming, “Shut your mouth, piss-rag! I wasn’t frigging talkin’ to you!”

          “Sera, he helped me find you!” Kasde insisted. “Why would he do that? Think!”

          “Yeah, great! So they can send us all to be butchered! It’s not hard to figure out if you’d stop being stupid!” The elf fisted her hands in her hair, letting out an aggravated growl. “I was fine in my cell. Happy, even! They let me alone there! Least I can get my licks in before I friggin’ eat it.”

          The Herald blinked several times, unsure what to say. Her eyes snapped rapidly between her friends. For long moments, nothing made sense. Her brain sifted through the details, but try as she might, none of the pieces wanted to fit.

          “Sera,” she finally asked, “why do you think Cullen is one of them?”

          “Because!” Sera’s tone was definite, as though that single word explained everything. “ _He_ gave up.”

          Cullen’s eyes hastily dropped the floor. If shame reddened his face, the glow of the lyrium in his skin hid it well.

          “He believed them. When they said you died? _He believed them!_ Gave up, quit, threw in the friggin’ towel. Coward.”

          “You said yourself I was dead,” Kasde recalled.

          Sera shook her head defiantly. “That’s not the same!” she hollered. “I still tried! Ran out of arrows, remember? This one just keeled over and cried about it.”

          Cullen said nothing in his own defense. He made no sound, not even to shuffle his feet the way he did when he was nervous. Was he admitting it? Or was he too broken to do anything but take the abuse?

          “The only reason they let him walk around is he _listens_ ,” Sera went on. “They fed him the red stuff, and now he _hears_ them. Completely mental, that one.”

          Tears burned in Kasde’s eyes as she watched him; waited for him to say something – anything. “Cullen…why?”

          “Don’t you get it?” Sera stomped her feet. “You _died_ , Herald. Knew he wasn’t gonna bring you back. Weren’t nothing _to_ bring back. Didn’t matter. It was you. Forever and all that rubbish, right? ‘Cept they didn’t let you _have_ forever, did they, Jackboot?”

          Kasde looked to the book hanging from his side, glanced back at him. The pieces snapped together.

_“It was for…more than a promise,”_ he’d said.

          Quietly, she approached him, lifting his chin just enough that she could consider his face. “Cullen, is that true?”

          A wry smile tugged at his scarred lips, and warmth pooled in his eyes. “Were you not listening? I told you as much myself.”

          “No,” she snapped, even as the tears streaked down her cheeks, “you didn’t, dummy.” She let out a shaky breath. “Why did you have to go and do something like that?”

          “Hush.” His gloved hands cupped her face, much as she had not long before. The leather was soft as his thumbs swiped across her cheeks. “No tears, My Lady,” he whispered.

          Sera gagged dramatically. “Get a room you two. On second thought, don’t. Don’t need you two gettin’ your nasty on where I can hear it.”

          Kasde blushed entirely too hard.

          “Oh, phwoar, don’t get your knickers all twisted,” the elf grumbled. “Oi, Jackboot, you good on keepin’ it together in there?” She tapped the side of her head with a finger.

          “I will do my best.”

          Cullen gave the Herald a final, reassuring smile before bending over to scoop an item off the floor. He hefted a delicate, albeit aged, bow, tossing it and a dirty buckskin quiver into Sera’s outstretched hands. Light filled her eyes as she counted the fletchings.

          A familiar, hysterical giggle rose in her throat as she tested the bowstring. “You’re not so bad after all,” she muttered. “You lookit me funny, I’ll arrow you in the face.”

          Cullen nodded solemnly. “I will take you to the magister,” he vowed, “but we have one last stop along the way.”

          With a single, bounding stride, Sera rounded the corner after him, humming a dark, lilting melody as she went. Kasde was left alone, thumbing her daggers, fighting down the urge to trace the burning path of Cullen’s fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up, kids! We're on the emotional roller coaster now!
> 
> Questions, comments, concerns? Something you'd like to see? Feel free to drop a comment, inbox me, or drop a message on my tumblr. https://eirlithad.tumblr.com/  
> I'd be more than happy to write up some one-shots if anyone's got a hankering for 'em!


	27. In Hushed Whispers Part V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is turning out to be a lot longer than I originally intended. I keep sitting at my computer, saying, "I can do this in one chapter!" HA. Sometimes my own naivete makes me laugh.

           Cullen’s condition worsened. He struggled to focus, an empty, faraway look in his eyes. A thick sheen of sweat coated his brow. Each step seemed to cause him physical pain, and as much as Kasde tried to deny it, her concern had slowed their progress. His suffering lingered at the forefront of her mind, hammering doubt, like nails, behind her eyes. No amount of time would comfort her. What they needed was speed, and she took it from them each and every time she stopped to ask if he was all right.

           She knew what needed to be done. She simply could not bring herself to consider it.

           Cullen braced himself against the wall, lyrium spikes squealing and scraping against the stone with each labored breath.

           “We can stop,” Kasde softly offered. “Catch your breath.” For all the good it would do, she smoothed his cold, damp hair from his face.

           He shook his head. “No. The longer we wait, the worse our chances. I can endure it.”

           “Cullen, it’s all right. We can—”

           “Enough!”

          Not sparing his waning strength, he slapped at her hand. When she tried again to soothe him, a violent shove sent her stumbling awkwardly backward. She teetered dangerously on her heels, nearly losing her footing in surprise, and cradled her hand against her chest.

          “I gave you my word,” Cullen hissed. “I will give you no less than I gave the Inquisition, the Templars, the Chantry… _I will not_.” Tipping his head against the wall, he let out a ragged breath. “It’s…just through there,” he said, pointing around the corner.

          “We don’t even know if Leliana is still alive,” Kasde argued.

          Cullen smirked weakly. “I do.”

          “I’ll stay with him.” Sera stepped forward. “Won’t like it, not one bit, but you gotta find Leli,” she muttered. “Go on. I’ll protect your Jackboot.”

          Kasde opened her mouth to protest, but Cullen cut her off, saying, “Go. I’ll be fine.”

          Thankfully, the passage ahead had remained intact. Spires of red lyrium continued to grow through the walls, but the clusters were few and far between. The air grew stale and rank, and Kasde clapped a hand across her nose and mouth to keep from retching.

          Corpses littered the corridor. Some looked hours old; others, weeks. Many were indistinguishable, faces hidden beneath tattered hoods, or simply far too decomposed. She had known Alexius was crazed, but the sight had her adjusting his mental tag to ‘depraved’. Either he had no control over his men, or he knew and cared little. Whatever the case, she hated him for it, and that anger pooled in her gut like dragon fire.

          A resounding crack echoed through the passage, and she found herself creeping toward the sound. At the corner stood a door, just barely ajar.

          “How did Trevelyan know of the sacrifice at the Temple!” a hollow voice demanded. “Answer!”

          “Never.” Leliana’s voice.

          Another crack filtered through the door. “There’s no use to this defiance, little bird. There’s no one left for you to protect.”

          “You’re wasting your breath.”

          Kasde heard yet another strike, followed by a grunt of pain.

          “Talk! The Elder One demands answers!”

          The spymaster laughed, an angry, bitter sound. “He’ll get used to disappointment.”

          The Herald glanced at the body at her feet. Through the blood and dirt, the Flaming Eye was just barely visible. _Leliana’s men,_ she realized, her rage rising.

          “You _will_ break!”

          “I will _die_ first.”

          Drawing her blades, the Herald shouldered the door open, just in time to see Sister Leliana wrap her legs about her captor’s throat and _jerk_. The snap of his neck was sudden and brutal.

          “You’re alive!”

          Her face was ruined. The bones of her cheeks – of her nose – protruded grotesquely. Her skin was gray and shriveled, the sockets of her eyes sunken and wide. Thick, dark veins dotted her cheeks. Even her hair, once red as flame, had lost its luster. It now hung in limp, straw-like strands around her face, faded and brittle.

          More importantly, however, was the absence of red in her eyes.

          Kasde hurried to retrieve the key, and set to unfastening her shackles. “It’s a long story,” she explained. “We never died in the first place. Alexius miscalculated.”

          “Then it will be his last mistake,” Leliana grinned. With a relieved groan, she dropped to the floor.

          Just then, two shapes burst into the room. Instinct kicked in, and Kasde was halfway through a deathblow before their faces registered. Luckily, her spymaster was quicker. Wrapping her hand around the Herald’s wrist, she managed to halt the movement of her arm.

          “Maker’s fucking _breath_ , Dorian!”

          The Tevinter was rigid, spine shocked straight and eyes panicked. “Right,” he stammered. “Let’s all take a moment to thank him for that.” With a weary moan, he collapsed forward, bracing his hands on his knees.

          Kasde rushed past him, flinging herself into the arms of his companion with a muffled cry of, “Blackwall!”

          The Warden’s hearty laugh filled her ears, and she was glad for it, even warped by the lyrium. “Good to see you, girl,” he rumbled, rubbing soothing circles against her back as she wept.

          “Have you found anyone else?” Dorian wondered.

          She nodded. “Sera and Cullen are just down the hall.”

          Leliana’s head snapped up. “Cullen? You found him?”

          “A bit worse for wear, but yeah.”

          “Good. We’ll need all the help we can get.”

          The Orlesian woman threw open a trunk at the far end of the room, and began retrieving her weapons.

          “You…aren’t curious how we got here?” Dorian asked.

          “No,” came Leliana’s reply. Her brows knitted in concentration as she restrung her bow with practiced precision. She seemed…peaceful, but anyone with a brain could tell she was burying the pain beneath a hundred layers of anger and grit.

          Kasde recognized it immediately, saying, “Dorian, shut up.”

          “Alexius sent us into the future,” he rambled on, oblivious. “This. His victory, the Elder One—it was never meant to be. If I can get us back to our present time, we can prevent this future from ever happening.”

          Leliana sniffed dismissively. “And mages always wonder why people fear them.”

          “No one should have this kind of power,” Dorian agreed. “Before the Breach, nothing we did—”

          “Enough.”

          Abruptly, the spymaster straightened, whirling on him. Dorian swallowed thickly. Painfully aware of his mistake, he took a step back, inching closer to Blackwall and the Herald.

          “This is all pretend to you,” Leliana barked, “some future you hope will never exist.” She shook her head, clenching her hands into tight fists. “I suffered. The whole world suffered. It was real.”

          “I’m sorry,” Kasde whispered.

“We should get moving, before the Elder One learns you’re here.”

          They found Cullen exactly where they had left him, with Sera anxiously pacing the length of the corridor. His eyes seemed to have regained some fraction of their focus, tracking the elf’s steps with a predatory shine to them.

          Kasde dropped to his side, brushing the backs of her fingers across his forehead. His skin was cool and clammy, but warmer than before. “You seem better.” A faint smile tugged at her mouth.

          “The fits come and go,” he said. Glancing up, he noted, “You found the others. Help me up.”

          Blackwall gripped his hand, taking on most of the weight so Kasde could act as a brace.

          “Is Alexius still in the main hall?” Leliana asked.

          Cullen nodded, straightening his tabard. “So far as I can tell.”

          “The door is sealed tight. We already checked,” Dorian huffed. “I don’t know where Alexius got the damned thing, or how he even moved it here, but it’s locked with some mechanism I’ve never seen before.”

          “Then we find the key,” Sera chirruped. “Can’t be that hard.”

          The Commander cleared his throat abruptly. Reaching into his cloak, he removed a set of intricately carved shards of red lyrium. “I…may have already found them,” he mumbled.

_“Where?”_

          “When I left you to scout ahead,” he explained. “It isn’t as though I wandered without purpose. I _have_ eyes.” His lip curled in outrage.

          “All right. No need to get surly,” Kasde said, reaching for the shards. “Thank you, Cullen. Now that we have the key, we can—”

          He jerked his hand back abruptly.

          “Cullen,” she ordered, “give me the keys.”

          “No.” Returning them to his pocket, he amended, “It would be better if I kept them.”

          Leliana nodded solemnly. “He’s right. Look at them. They were made with red lyrium. We cannot risk you becoming corrupted.”

          “I find myself inclined to agree,” Dorian chimed in.

          Kasde turned her eyes to Cullen, the look she gave him accusatory. “Is that why you’ve been getting worse?”

          “I made you a promise, and I—”

          “Oh, Andraste damn your promise!” she bellowed. “Stop trying to be so Maker-damned noble all the time!”

          Laughter shimmered in his eyes. “No, My Lady,” he replied. “On this, I will not yield.”

          A low growl rumbled its way up her throat. _He’s right. He’s right, and you know it, so stop being stubborn._ “Fine,” she spat out at last. “But the first sign of trouble – the _second_ you feel yourself slipping, you tell me.”

          “I…will try.”

          “You son of a bitch.” Throwing her hands into the air, Kasde stalked off, hollering over her shoulder, “Let’s get moving, before _I_ kill him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It always kind of bothered me that the Inquisitor PICKS UP the red lyrium and just sort of hangs onto it for a bit. Being near the stuff can cause hallucinations, insanity, and a whole host of other issues, but our character and her friends seem...conveniently immune to them. So I attempted to rectify that by having Cullen hold onto the shards.
> 
> Questions, comments, concerns? Drop me a message either here or on my tumblr: https://eirlithad.tumblr.com


	28. In Hushed Whispers Part VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, boys and girls!  
> This one's a looooong one, but it just didn't feel right breaking it up into smaller chapters. Besides, emotions, roller coaster, and so on.

          Debris blocked a fair majority of their routes, leaving but one option. With Cullen’s help, the party managed to sneak through the abandoned docks, mostly unnoticed. Upon seeing the red spires jutting out above the water’s surface, Kasde vowed never to swim again.

          Despite her _very_ vocal disagreement, Cullen volunteered to scout on ahead, reasoning that his corrupted state would raise little suspicion if he went alone.

          That left Kasde damp and bitter, scowling at her companions.

           The silence was comforting, providing the perfect environment to stew in her rage. She was angry with Cullen – with Alexius, with the discolored muck clinging stubbornly to her boots, with the sound of others breathing – but most of all, she was angry with herself.

           And so, she occupied herself by flinging handfuls of detritus into the tainted water. The splash as they hit the water ricocheted off the ceiling of the cave, carrying well over the roaring of the tide. Each drop, each hollow _plunk_ , rang in her ears.

            _My fault._

_My fault._

_My fault._

Dorian seemed to take the quiet not as well, pacing wildly the length of the dock. His movements flickered on the edge of Kasde’s vision, providing her with a growing source of irritability.

            _My fault._

           “What happened here?”

           Leliana’s eyes swung up to meet the Tevinter’s gaze. “Stop talking.”

_My fault._

           “I’m just asking for information.”

           “No, you’re talking to fill silence. Nothing happened that you want to hear.”

            _My fault._

           Sera leaned against one of the tie-off columns, tossing and catching some smooth, polished stone she had found. “Well, shit,” she giggled, “I’ll tell you what happened.”

           Leliana shot the elf a murderous look that threatened all kinds of violence.

           Sera grinned widely and ignored her. “The Empress of Orlais? Celene, or whatever? Elder One had her offed. Raised up an army of demons to take over the world.”

            _My fault._

           “The Inquisition was crushed,” Blackwall sighed. “Anyone who refused to convert was killed.”

           Dorian made a small, choked sound. “And the rest of the world?”

           “What rest?” Sera grumbled. “Ain’t no _rest_. Nothin’ left out there.”

            _My fault._

           Hurling the last of her pebbles into the water, Kasde crossed her arms and stared at the mouth of the cave. The light outside, tainted sickly green, was too bright to see anything beyond. For once, she was glad for that.

           Suddenly, a thought struck her, one she had managed to keep carefully hidden since discovering the spymaster’s condition.

           “Leliana, why aren’t you corrupted?”

           A collective, sharp intake of breath filled the room.

           “They had you chained under red Maker-fucking lyrium. Why aren’t you sprouting the stuff? Better yet – hang on – why aren’t _you two_ as bad off as Cullen?”

           Leliana shrugged indifferently.  “Perhaps you should ask him. You know he would tell you.”

           “I’ve thought about it,” Kasde admitted. “I just…can’t.”

            _“Ce n'est pas étonnant,”_ the Orlesian muttered. “You are aware they tested us, no?”

           Kasde nodded glumly.

           “The tests Alexius subjected us to were…unique. He learned us, what made us tick, and he turned it on us.” Leliana glanced briefly at Sera, then Blackwall. “Some of us,” she continued, “were easier to break. Those of us who resisted were subjected to further tortures.

           “They tried any number of things. Ingestion, cutting, inserting the lyrium directly into open wounds. Many did not survive.”

           Kasde looked away, suddenly ill. “Go on,” she heard herself say.

           “I’m not sure why I am…‘resistant’, they called it. When the lyrium failed to induce madness, they turned to more practical means, thinking I held some secret as to how you foiled their Elder One’s plan. Truthfully, I knew no more than they did.”

           “And Cullen?”

          Leliana shifted behind her. “Cullen was a…special case. He refused to cooperate, and when his feelings for you came to light…” She bowed her head. “No, his condition was not a test. It was punishment.”

          Clenching her jaw, the Herald squeezed her eyes shut. Anger was good; she could use it. Her fingernails bit into her sides, using the pain to help her concentrate. In her heart, she knew there would be no comfort. She could kill Alexius, avenge her friends, and prevent it all from happening again, but she would never be free of it. Its taint had already touched her – fed on her – and she would never be clean.

          “What became of Felix? Do you know?”

          Leliana lifted her skeletal face at the sound of Dorian’s voice. He stood over her, anxiously wringing the grip of his staff.

          “Yes, I know.”

           The mage scoffed. “That’s it? Care to elaborate?”

           “No.”

           Cullen’s timely return quashed any further attempts at probing. The door to the docks banged open, and he staggered across the threshold, pausing to lean against the wall. A fresh smattering of blood coated his armor.

           “The way through is clear,” he panted. “We can reach the door through the servants’ entrance.”

           A spark of hope, however faint, flickered to life in Kasde’s chest. Hurriedly, she ushered everyone into the stairwell, barking instructions.

           “Blackwall, first line of defense. Sera, protect Leliana. Dorian, support them. Cullen and I will bring up the rear.”

           The elf cackled wildly, muttering, “ _Rear._ ”

           “Focus! We have one shot at this.” As the others clanged up the steps, she turned to her Commander, holding out her hand. “Give me the keys.”

           “Over my dead body,” he growled.

           “You keep holding onto them, that will be sooner rather than later. _Give me the keys._ ”

           “No!”

           Leliana’s voice called down to them, “Herald, is everything all right?”

           “Fine!” Kasde snapped, hating the way her voice shook. Taking Cullen’s face in her hands, she whispered, “I’m not going to just let you die.”

          His smile was sad. “Death is only where you leave me.”

          “Stop it!” She shook him. “Don’t talk like that. We are getting out of here!”

          His hands curled around her own, tender and grateful. “No lies between us,” he said. “We both know the truth. I will never leave this place. I will die here. Nothing you say or do will change that.”

          “I’m still going to try!”

          “If it gives you comfort, you should.” A violent tremor overtook him, and he gasped in pain. His eyes glazed over, their horrid glow returning.

          Again, she shook him, trying to drag him back. “Damn it, Cullen! You stay with me!” she shouted. “Do you hear me, Rutherford?”

          He blinked once, understanding, but the far-off look in his eyes continued to deepen. Kasde’s mind scrambled. They were so close! Her eyes darted about in panic as she clung to him. The wretched music in her head – the grating, dissonant song of his lyrium – clouded her mind and she cursed.

          It was pure luck – or perhaps Divine intervention – that her gaze landed on the tattered hymnal at his side.

          “Maker, my enemies are abundant,” she chanted softly.

          Cullen’s eyes sparked in recognition.

          “That’s it! That’s it; say it with me! Many are those who rise up against me.”

          “But…my faith…sustains me,” he rasped, “I shall not fear the legion, s-should they set themselves against me.”

          “Good!” Kasde positioned herself under his arm, bracing his weight, and helped him stand. “Come on, you self-sacrificing bastard. Let’s get out of here.”

          “Such a foul mouth,” he chuckled. “I’d forgotten.”

          “Yeah? Well, when I get back, I’ll make sure to remind you.”

          Dorian waited for them at the top of the stairs, a sympathetic look plastered across his face.

          “Don’t,” was all she said.

          She helped him walk. It was the only thing that kept her remotely sane. Focusing on Cullen’s progress prevented her mind from wandering to deeper, darker thoughts. Without a doubt, she knew what had to be done; knew it would come to that. Until then, she would hope.

          So, she shouldered his burden. With a trembling hand, Cullen inserted the shards into the door. The chiseled lock began to glow, and spun itself open.

 _This,_ Kasde thought, _isn’t Redcliffe anymore._

          A fire crackled in the hearth. Loose stone tumbled down the steps and around the base of two tall, grotesque statues. Even the tapestries had been replaced. In her mind’s eye, she could still see Ferelden’s mabari rampant, even behind the gilded serpents of Tevinter. Someone, it seemed, was keen on scrubbing out any memory but their own.

          The chair in which Alexius had sat lay upended on the ground, thrown aside in a fit of rage or grief. The magister himself stood with his hands to the flame. He made no move to attack, nor face them in peace. He simply stood, and waited.

          Leliana moved as a shadow to the far door, listening for unwanted guests. Two dark shapes moved with her, their corrupted eyes gleaming from the shadows.

          Easing Cullen to the ground, Kasde inched into the room. She was quiet, but surely the door’s opening had jarred Alexius’s focus. Still he stood, and waited.

          Her eyes were drawn instinctually to movement at the magister’s feet. Some wretched, tainted creature crouched at his side, pawing its gruesome face with claw-like fingers.

          Suddenly, Dorian was at her side, his face grim. The sight triggered a pang of guilt in her belly. All the while, he had been suffering, and she, too caught up in her own pain to notice. She offered him a tight smile, reassuring, and stepped into the light.

          “It’s over, Alexius.”

          He knew. It was there, in the despairing bow of his head; the slump of his shoulders. “I knew you would appear again,” he quietly said. “Not that it would be now, but I knew I hadn’t destroyed you. My…final failure.”

          “I’m going to make you wish you had.” Kasde’s fingers tightened and clenched, until her palms threatened to bleed.

          “Was it worth it? Everything you did to the world? To yourself?” Dorian demanded.

          “It doesn’t matter,” Alexius whimpered. “All we can do is wait for the end.”

          Kasde cast a wary glance at Dorian. “I’ll admit,” she remarked, “I expected a bit more fight out of you.”

          “Alas, I am not the foe you remember. All that I fought for, all that I betrayed, and what have I wrought? Ruin and death; there is nothing else.” His head sagged in shame. “The Elder One comes: for me, for you, for us all.”

          Sounds of a scuffle drew their attention.

          Alexius let out a panicked wail.

          Leliana held his creature at knifepoint, her eyes dark and menacing in their shriveled sockets.

          “Felix!”

          “ _That’s_ Felix?” Dorian cried. “Maker’s breath, Alexius, what have you done?”

          The magister dropped to his knees, extending shaking hands toward his son. “He would have died, Dorian. I _saved_ him!” Tears spilled down his cheeks. “Please,” he begged, “don’t hurt my son.”

          “Saved him?” Kasde’s lips curled back over her teeth, and she snarled, “You didn’t _save_ him. That’s not living.”

          All it took was a nod. The spymaster read the intent in her eyes.

_Mercy._

          Alexius went mad – truly, frothing mad, flinging fire, like whips, across the room. He babbled nonsensically, adrift in the sea of his grief. In the end, it was the tip of a blade that silenced his cries. A small mercy, for one so lost.

          And it was hollow.

          Dorian knelt over his mentor’s broken body, face twisting between agony and regret. Reaching into Alexius’s robes, he lifted the small bauble Kasde had seen floating in his palm, moments before the rift pulled her into the future: an amulet. Dangling from Dorian’s finger, it seemed such a tiny, innocent thing.

          “Oh, Alexius,” he sighed. “He wanted to die, didn’t he? All those lies he told himself, the justifications… He lost Felix long ago, and didn’t even notice.”

          Kasde knelt beside him. “This Alexius wasn’t the man you knew,” she said. “He was too far gone. But the Alexius in our time… He might be reasoned with.”

          “I hope you’re right.” Rolling the chain over in his hands, a bitter smile pulled at his lips. “This is the same amulet he used before. It’s…the same one we made in Minrathous, I think.”

          “That’s lucky.”

          Dorian ambled to his feet and approached the dais. He glanced about, checking his surroundings. Kasde’s understanding of magic was limited at best, but she had to assume location was crucial. Perhaps standing in the exact spot they had disappeared from…?

          “Right,” the mage said with a terse nod. “With this, I should be able to reopen the rift.”

          The Herald heaved a sigh of relief. “Excellent.”

          “I said _should_. It could also turn us into paste.” Shaking himself, he added, “Give me an hour to work out the spell he used, and—”

          “An _hour_?” Leliana howled. “That’s impossible. You must go now!”

          “I’m aware, but I can’t very well snap my fingers and make that happen!”

          Cullen coughed violently. “You must leave, before the Elder One—”

          A deafening screech shook the hall. As one, they looked to the ceiling, watching silt and debris tumble down from the darkness.

          “Right,” Blackwall said, smiling through his bushy beard. “Time’s up.” With not a tear in his eye, he approached the Herald, wrapping her in a tight embrace.

          Realization dawned on her. “No,” she whimpered.

          “Buck up, Herald.” Sera lightly cuffed her on the jaw. “It’s all good, innit?”

          “No! No, it’s not! I won’t let you commit suicide!”

          Leliana was there to steady her, giving her shoulders a firm shake. “Look at us,” she commanded. “We’re already dead. The only way we live—look at me!” She gripped Kasde’s chin and forced her to obey. “The _only_ way we live is if this day never comes.”

          “I can’t…”

          “You must.” Cullen staggered to his feet, drawing his sword. “Blackwall, you and Sera go on ahead; take out as many as you can. Leliana, you and I are the last line of defense. We protect the Herald, to our dying breath.”

          All manner of things flooded her mind: things she should have said, things she still should. Somehow, none of them seemed appropriate, let alone adequate. Any goodbyes would be meaningless.

          Even as Dorian’s hand circled her wrist, tugging her gently back, she frowned. The anger had died within her, replaced with a cold, sinking feeling in her stomach.

          “Cast your spell,” Leliana said. “You have as much time as I have arrows.”

          The door closed behind the elf and the Warden, their hands raised in a final farewell. There would be no return for them, not in this life. In that moment, Kasde knew she had failed them.   _I will do better next time_ , she vowed.

          Dorian positioned her just so, and instructed that she remain still. Under no circumstances was she to move from ‘that spot’. Perhaps it was his earlier, albeit likely exaggerated, comment about _paste_ , but she was inclined to do exactly as he said.

          Tears pooled on her lashes as Cullen tucked a strand of hair behind her ears. Corrupted as he was, he was still handsome, and it was unfair. How was she to return to her time, with her churlish, ill-mannered Commander, after seeing what he could become?

          He thumbed the moisture from her cheeks, the press of his lips cool against her forehead. “No tears,” he whispered, offering the smallest of smiles.

          She nodded, too quickly, for the tears spilled over and down her face.

          Dorian clucked his tongue disapprovingly. “This is all very moving, but your angst is interfering with—” He noticed the watery sheen to the Herald’s eyes, and grumbled in frustration. “ _Fasta vass_ , you’re in the way. Go on, shoo!” He waved his hands curtly at the Commander before returning to his task.

          Nodding, Cullen moved to take his place at the bottom of the steps. He remained but a moment longer, fingers caught in Kasde’s persistent grip.

          “Let go,” he murmured.

          She shook her head, sending carefully tucked strands of hair tumbling into her wet face.

          “Kasde.” He did not look at her – did not turn – but kept his gaze fixated on the far door. “Let me go.” The words were final; simple. A last command.

          She obeyed.

          It wasn’t long before the sounds of fighting reached them. Smoke poured through the seams of the door, illuminated for brief periods by fire or lightning flash. Dorian worked furiously at his spell, brow furrowed and lips moving too quickly to read.

          “Herald.”

          Kasde turned at the sound of Cullen’s voice, cracked and unsteady. He was shaking furiously, barely maintaining a grip on his blade. His eyes were closed, but tendrils of crimson leaked from beneath his lashes.

          “Say it again for me,” he begged, dragging long, ragged breaths in through his nose. “One last time.”

          She nodded, understanding, and opened her mouth. The Chant flowed as water from her lips, pure and absolute in the darkness.

          “You have walked beside me down the paths where a thousand arrows sought my flesh. You have stood with me when all others have forsaken me.”

          Cullen’s eyes opened, and her breath hitched. Gone was their amber hue, hidden behind the lyrium’s song.

          “I have faced armies with you as my shield,” she continued, “and though I bear scars beyond counting, nothing can break me except—”

          Suddenly, the door shook. Its seal ruptured in a flash of light, exploding outward. Venatori, flanked by demons, flooded the room. One of the horrors flung a charred, lifeless shape to the floor.

_“Sera!”_

          Dorian’s hand kept her rooted; prevented her from leaving the dais. “You move, and we all die!”

          Leliana knocked an arrow and took aim. “Though darkness closes, I am shielded by flame.” Her hand was in motion long before the first shot struck home, readying a second. “Andraste, guide me. Maker, take me to your side.”

          A sharp whistle cut through the air, and she was struck. Her cry of pain resounded in the room, but she did not relent. Cullen moved forward to support, even as the Orlesian dove into her enemies. Together, spymaster and commander drove them back, giving Dorian the time he needed.

          Kasde turned, watching the amulet’s green light grow with each passing second. “This had better work!”

          It was the sound of Leliana’s screams that tore all thought away. They said one had an eternity to watch tragedy unfold; that ten seconds of terror were a mere fractal image in the span of one’s life. Whoever they were, they weren’t wrong.

          Her bow lay broken on the ground, splintered arrows scattered all around. There, on her knees, she waited, helpless, as death came for her on two feet. Red crystal sang against steel, their coupling sending a spray of sparks into the air. The blade sunk into her flesh, and her eyes dimmed.

          When Cullen turned to look over his shoulder, it was with the wide, vulgar smirk of a madman.

          The scream rushed from Kasde’s lungs before she could snatch it back. He came for her, heavy, booted strides thundering up the steps. Tossing his blade aside, he advanced, content to murder her with his bare hands. His fingers latched around her throat, lifting her bodily off the floor. The sharp bite of steel glanced over her skin, and he sneered.

          “You are nothing,” he said. “You have grieved as I have. You, who made worlds out of nothing.” He shook her violently. “ _Die_ , pretender.”

          Kasde’s vision darkened, all sounds of screaming lost to her ears. Before her was only Cullen, and the awful redness of his eyes.

          And then she was free, falling. She slammed into the ground, hard, jarring her senses back into clarity. The stained fall of Dorian’s robe obscured her sight. She knew that meant something – that it was important – but her mind failed her.

          The reality of the situation struck her with cold certainty that left her dazed. Cullen sagged forward, held upright only by the length of wood thrust into his gut. His eyes were closed.

          Dorian withdrew, and she could see at last the blade secured to the base of his staff. Blood – _Cullen’s_ blood – coated the metal, dripping onto the floor as he moved to resume his spell.

          Kasde was left to catch the Commander’s limp frame, frantically pawing the hair and blood from his eyes. “No, no, no, no!” she wailed. “Cullen? _Cullen!”_ Whipping her eyes to the mage, she thundered, “What have you done?”

          “We’ll discuss it later!” Dorian snapped. “Right now, we have to go!”

          His free hand closed on the collar of her tunic, and she was forced to release her hold on the body.

 _Body,_ she repeated. _Cullen’s body._

          As the rift tore open and wrapped around them, her eyes lingered on his face. She committed to memory the patterns the blood made, and swore revenge. Her last thought lingered on the cruelty of it all, that someone like _him_ would rot in a place like _that._

          She let him go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Questions, comments, concerns? Something you'd like to see? Drop a message here on on my tumblr: https://eirlithad.tumblr.com/
> 
> What Leliana mutters is, more or less, "it figures." Lit. "It is not surprising."
> 
> Most of the verses used in this chapter were from the Canticle of Trials. It seemed fitting, given the circumstances.  
> Also, the last verse Kasde is interrupted in saying is, "Nothing can break me except your absence."
> 
> I know, I'm sick and I need help.


	29. Undone, Then Done

           In smoke fury, she returned, eyes brimming with power and pain. Bearing down on the magister’s trembling frame, it was only the thin thread of her self-control that stayed her hand. Every ounce of her – heart, mind, body, _soul_ – screamed for blood. She hungered for it, _craved_ it like nothing else. She wanted to feel the crunch of his bones, to watch the life leave his eyes the way it had left—

            _Them_.

           They were alive again. So beautifully, wonderfully alive, with color in their cheeks and smiles on their faces. They were _alive_ , and breathing, and whole. The light in their eyes was back, and o _h, Maker_ – there wasn’t the smallest ounce of red to be found.

           She nearly retched.

           Beside her, Dorian grinned, “You’ll have to do better than that.”

Alexius fell to his knees, eyes wide and disbelieving, as though unable to comprehend his failure.

           “You failed, Alexius. How forgiving is your Elder One?” Kasde snarled.

           “You won. There is no point extending this…charade.” The magister turned his gaze to his son. “Felix…”

           “It’s going to be all right, Father,” he said. It didn’t take a scholar to see the lie for what it was.

           Alexius shook his head. “You’ll die.”

           “Everyone dies.”

           Leliana’s men hauled Alexius away without struggle. The Herald followed him with her eyes, fingers flexing and clenching. Felix trailed behind, casting a grateful smile in her direction. Kasde found she could not return it, her emotions still too raw to forget.

          With the magister and his son gone, she heaved a sigh of relief, realizing then she’d been holding her breath.

          “Well, I’m glad that’s over with,” Dorian muttered, eyes sparkling and cheery.

          The moment sputtered and died like a lit match on the Storm Coast. Armored footsteps filled the hall, loud enough that he was forced to raise his voice to be heard above the din.

          “…or not.”

          “Give me a break,” Kasde groaned.

          Of all the people she might have expected to appear, King Alistair of Ferelden was the last. Gone was the sulky, shy boy she remembered. In his place stood a handsome, well-aged man of thirty, with _far_ too many guards.

          “Grand Enchanter Fiona,” he drawled. “Imagine how surprised I was to learn you’d given Redcliffe Castle away to a Tevinter magister.”

_Shit._

          He canted his head to the side, scrutinizing the elven mage’s every feature. “Especially since I’m fairly certain Redcliffe belongs to _my uncle_.”

          “Your Majesty! We never intended—”

          “I _know_ what you intended,” Alistair said patiently. “I wanted to help you, but you’ve made it impossible.” He shook his head in dismay. “You and your followers are no longer welcome in Ferelden.”

          Fiona started, dread draining the color from her cheeks. “But…we have hundreds who need protection! Where will we go?”

          “You’ll be leaving here with the Inquisition.” Kasde stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on the Enchanter’s shoulder.

          Alistair regarded her curiously, as though trying to place her in his memory. She resisted the urge to squirm beneath his stare, and recited every prayer she could think of that he _didn’t_ remember her.

          “Trevelyan,” he sneered at last. “Why am I not surprised?”

_Crap._ “Because Your Majesty is extraordinarily clever?” she suggested coyly. _Maker, let him have a sense of humor._

          “Ha ha. Very funny.” A dry snort escaped him. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

          “On the contrary.”

          The king arched one eyebrow inquisitively.

          “I got taller.”

          He made an awkward wheezing sound, struggling to keep his face composed. Apparently, kings were not permitted to laugh.

          Fiona’s eyes danced between them, unsure. “What are the terms of this arrangement?” she wondered.

          “A lot better than what Alexius offered,” Kasde joked. “Truthfully? I came here for allies, not slaves. We would be honored to have you at the Inquisition’s side.”

          That seemed to strike the Enchanter as extraordinarily odd.

          Kasde understood. The mages had been offered protection and abused far too much to trust anyone blindly. The Templars, Ferelden, _Tevinter_ – now the Inquisition. How long before they, too, turned them away? It wasn’t a far jump.

          She smiled sincerely. “The Breach threatens all of Thedas. We cannot afford to be divided now.”

          “I’d take that offer,” Alistair advised, “if I were you. One way or another, you’re leaving my kingdom.”

          “We accept. I pray that the rest of your Inquisition honors your promise, Herald.” Fiona bowed graciously. “I will ready my people for the journey to Haven. You will not regret giving us this chance.”

          The Ferelden king watched her leave, lips curled into a skeptical frown. Who he doubted more – the mages or the Inquisition – was anyone’s guess.

          “We will close the Breach,” Kasde assured him. “I promise you that.”

          Rubbing the back of his head, Alistair let out a sigh. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Trevelyan,” he said. “Last I remember, anything you did was simply to spite me.”

          “Still to spite you, Your Majesty,” she smirked, with a perfect curtsey. Then, more seriously, “I think it’s the right thing to do.” She made to leave, suddenly very exhausted.

          “Ah, so you’re an idealist now,” he remarked, a hint of mocking in his voice.

          She turned to grin impishly over her shoulder. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

          Leliana was waiting just outside their camp, wearing a calculatedly blank expression. Her hair was red and vibrant beneath her hood, and her eyes shone with such warmth of life that Kasde nearly dropped to the ground right then and sobbed.

          “Cassandra will not be pleased,” she said, ruining everything.

          The small joy fled, leaving Kasde stiff. Abruptly, she straightened – _lift the chin, shoulders back –_ and continued past. She was the Herald, after all. Things were expected of her. If the spymaster noticed, she said nothing.

          “I wasn’t aware my job was to keep her happy,” she snipped.

          Leliana was visibly startled, no small feat. “It’s not,” she allowed, “but there are always consequences to our actions. Yours, most of all.”

          Kasde found her eyes drifting, searching for a glimpse of blond hair or the glint of armor. Bile rose in her throat. Seeing him would do her no good, but he was her Commander. _The_ Commander, she amended. The fate of the world depended on the two of them maintaining a functional, professional relationship.

          She swallowed thickly, fighting back a fresh wave of nausea. _No relationship,_ she told herself. Simple, professional interaction; it would take nothing more. She closed her eyes and breathed, trying to center herself once more, but images of his bloodstained face and red lyrium gaze flashed behind her eyelids.

          “Herald?” _His_ voice, so beautifully devoid of corruption.

          Kasde was suddenly faint. Part of her – a disturbingly strong part, if she were being honest – wanted to tackle him full-force and bury her nose in that _ridiculous_ fur mantle. The other, more practical side of her noted that such behavior would be inappropriate, and unbecoming of the Herald of Andraste.

          She willed herself to look at him, and was instantly relieved beyond words to see his shining, amber eyes staring back. His brows were knitted together in concern. Then, a disheartening thought came to her. The man rotting in future Redcliffe was not the man calling her name. He would have no memory of those events, and no understanding of her pain.

          His gaze raked over her from head to boot. “Are you all right?” he asked, voice far too soft for her fragile heart to bear.

          “I’m fine.” Her tone was clipped. She felt guilty, but had less than no desire to drudge up the horrors of her time travel adventure.

          “You don’t look fine.”

          “Then don’t look at me.”

          Kasde chewed her lip viciously. She had no intention of being cruel, but everything was _too damned much_ all at once, and she needed to breathe. Cullen breathing down her neck – while a tantalizing thought – was not helpful.

          Regardless, he stepped into her path, effectively pinning her between two tents with no way out but to retreat. Her temper flared in her helplessness, and Dorian, smug bastard that he was, trotted along by without so much as a care.

          Cullen’s eyes bored into hers, seeking some inkling of distress she refused to show. “What happened in there?”

_You kissed me. You died. It was horrible._

          Instead, she said, “Nothing happened that you want to hear.”

          “I only ask because you’re covered in blood.”

          Kasde glanced down, for the first time realizing the soaked state of her tunic. The entire right side, from neckline down, was a ruined, bloody mess. The trail continued down, staining her bright yellow sash, to trickle down the exposed length of her thigh.

          Cullen reached for her and she staggered back. _Not exhaustion_ , she noted, _blood loss._

          “That,” she murmured, “explains a lot.” Her legs shook, threatening to give out under her weight. She swung her head, slowly side to side, eyes drooping. “You’d think…someone would have…said something.”

          Suddenly, her knees buckled. The world tumbled over her head in a blur of color. Someone caught her, and she was vaguely aware of voices shouting nearby. She felt weightless, floating high and away. Had she been stronger, she would have smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Questions, comments, concerns? Something you want to see? Drop a comment here or on my tumblr: https://eirlithad.tumblr.com/


	30. Wagons Are So Gauche, Darling

           They had her in the medical tent for the better part of an hour. She came to part way through, spitting and cursing. Anyone foolish enough to poke their head in or stray too close to the Herald got a boot to the face, along with a rather inventive stream of blasphemies. A rather pale, terrified elf bolted from the tent toward the nearby stream, clutching Kasde’s bloodstained clothes.

          When they refused to listen, she started screaming for Dorian. The mage snuck in dutifully, and whether by his words or magic, managed to quiet her deranged cries.

          After his third attempt at checking on the Herald, the medic had shooed Cullen away and tied the flaps, leaving him to pace nervously around the spent campfire. After the fourth, Leliana laughed, calling him an overbearing mabari. A terse missive from Josephine sometime later had them en route to Haven before the Herald awoke.

          That evening, in the quiet dark of her tent, Kasde clutched Dorian’s hand close as exhausted tears rolled down her cheeks. “Don’t let them,” she repeated over and over. “Don’t let them heal me.”

          The mage placed a tender kiss on her forehead. “I won’t, _solira._ ”

          She dreamt of the color red, seeping into everything it touched. She floated beneath tainted waves, struggling to breathe. Screams echoed through her mind. Two red eyes watched her from the darkness, whispering terrible things.

          “ _Die_ , pretender.”

          Kasde snapped awake. Bolting upright, her hands immediately went for her weapons, only to find herself alone, bundled in the back of a supply cart. The road was rough and bumpy, jostling her to the point she was forced to close her eyes.

          Maker as her witness, she was going to fire the driver.

          “Good morning!”

          She groaned, clutching her head. “Not so _loud_ , Dorian,” she begged.

          The man in question rode alongside her – infuriatingly, she noted – on _her_ horse. Rifling through the saddlebags, he retrieved a mostly full water skin. Smiling, he offered it to her.

          She accepted gratefully. “Maker’s hairy arse, what happened?” Still slightly delirious, she set to struggling with the stopper.

          “Blood poisoning,” Dorian sniffed, as though it were the most common sort of thing; like stepping outside, only to have your boot land squarely in shit. “I’m surprised no one noticed the symptoms sooner.”

          “ _You_ didn’t notice them!” Kasde cried, incredulous.

          “Yes, well you’re not exactly the vocal sort now, are you?” He eyed her tiredly. “‘Dorian, it hurts when I walk. Is the room spinning? I feel faint.’” His impersonation was offensive, at best.

          She curled her lip and snarled.

          “No? I thought not.”

          She reached up to rub her throat, still raw and sore. Her fingers stroked something coarse. A bandage?

          Dorian tutted curtly, wagging a finger at her. “Leave that be,” he instructed. “We’ll fix you up when we reach Haven.”

          “Fix me?” she barked. “Why am I not _already_ fixed, as you so aptly put it?”

          “Because you punched the field medic in the face,” Dorian explained, giving her a dirty look.

          Kasde grumbled under her breath, tipping her head back to savor a long, slow gulp. The liquid hit her tongue, and she gagged. Wine sprayed from her mouth, and she was thankful the cart kept moving. Spending the trip in a blanket that stank of booze was not her idea of fun.

          “ _Really?_ ” she screeched, one hand held under her chin to catch any stray drops.

          “Stop whining. It will do you good.”

          “Yes, let’s cure me with a throbbing _hangover_ , says the Tevinter.” Jamming the stopper back in place, she flung the wineskin at him, none too kindly.

          Dorian shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he replied, and took a drink. “How do you feel, _solira_?”

          “You called me that before.” The words came out far more suspicious than intended. Covering her embarrassment, Kasde hunkered deeper into her blankets. “What does it mean?”

          “It doesn’t translate very well, I’m afraid,” Dorian answered. He tapped a finger against his chin, frowning. “I suppose _sunshine_ would be the closest you Southerners have to it.”

          “If you keep referring to us as ‘you Southerners’, you won’t make very many friends.”

          A wicked smile crossed his face. “Darling, who needs friends when I have myself?”

          Kasde snorted. He was either an egotist, or a sad, lonely man on the inside, so his concern was either well-meant or a mask for something far more sinister. That left her with mixed feelings, which she promptly stowed.

          “Where are the others?” she asked.

          “You are conveniently avoiding _my_ question.”

          “Very observant. Now, if you please?”

          The mage muttered something under his breath in Tevene. “Blackwall and Sera rode ahead. Something about a woman named Flissa and a bet. Truthfully, I wasn’t paying much attention; it sounded exceedingly dull.”

          “We Southerners have to make our own fun, Master Pavus,” Kasde said with a smirk. “We are not so fortunate in our upbringing as you, good ser.”

          He eyed her sidelong. “Very droll, Herald.”

          A pregnant silence passed, with only the sound of hooves and squealing wagon wheels between them.

          “Thank you.”

          Dorian eyed her strangely. “Normally, I’d suggest I was hearing things,” he jibed, “but in this case, I will simply say, you’re welcome.”

          “I’d like to…keep this between us, if that’s all right.” Kasde stared out from the back of the cart at the rolling mountains, wreathed in storm clouds.

          “None of them will ever understand,” Dorian said pointedly. “They don’t know what happened, but you and I? We will shoulder that burden together.” He grinned softly, a sincere gleam in his eyes. “I am with you, _solira._ ”

          She shivered, tucking the blankets further under her chin. “I can’t even imagine the things I said.”

          “A lot of nonsense, that’s what,” the mage chuckled. “You were, for all intents and purposes, a raving madwoman, shouting about _too many eyes_ and ‘don’t hurt them’. Nothing too revealing, I promise.”

          “Lucky.” She swiped the hair from her face, resting her arm against the side of the cart. Failure was the first word that came to mind. She’d fallen apart, not that anyone could blame her.

          “Well, you also said a great deal about cheese, the Divine’s silk knickers, and how you thought nugs were conspiring against you,” Dorian added, almost an afterthought.

          Kasde’s eyes widened in horror.

          “Even if you had said anything remotely revealing, I don’t think anyone took much of what came out of your mouth as gospel,” he assured her. Noticing her expression, he said, “No need to take yourself so seriously.”

          “Herald, expectations, and so on.” Her head thumped against her bent knee. “He’s going to think I’m a lunatic.”

          “He?” Dorian ventured, eyebrow raised puckishly.

          She snapped her head up abruptly, cheeks hot. “They!” she blurted, a bit too loudly. “ _They_ will think I’m a lunatic.” She attempted a laugh, but the sound was nervous and pathetic.

          Dorian’s eyes were far too knowing for her comfort, and he said, “Ah, so decidedly _not_ worried about what a certain, strapping Templar thinks.”

          “Ex-Templar,” Kasde corrected, without thinking. Her blush deepened. “I cannot hope you’ll drop this, can I?”

          He made a contemplative sound. “You’re still recovering, and I find myself feeling oddly generous.” With a wink, he sealed their pact. “Your secret is safe with me. For now.”

          The Herald stretched languidly, letting out an unladylike yawn. Much to the driver’s increasing alarm, she stood, arching her back as they rolled bumpily along.

          “How far are we from Haven?” she asked.

          “A little over a mile, ma’am,” he replied. He cast several worried glances over his shoulder. Things would likely not end well for him if the Herald of Andraste tumbled headfirst out of his wagon.

          “Very good. Dorian, off my horse.”

          He sneered at her. “And I’m to what, trot along on foot?”

          “You can ride in the cart.”

          Dorian rolled his eyes dramatically. “My Lady, need I remind you that I am Tevinter,” he insisted. “We do not _ride in carts!”_

          “A shame, Master Pavus,” Kasde snickered, “for I only see the one horse between us.”

          “Why do you get the horse?”

          “What did I say earlier?”

          Dorian grumbled unhappily, “Herald, expectations, and so on.”

          Which is how the Herald of Andraste wound up riding into Haven with a rather fussy Tevinter mage clinging to her waist.

          “This isn’t over,” he groused. “Mark my words.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Questions, comments, concerns? Something you want to see? Drop a comment here or on my tumblr: https://eirlithad.tumblr.com/


	31. Short Tempers, Long Threads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Things have been a little hectic here, and perhaps that's okay. I'm sure you all needed time to cope with what I did to everyone in the last few chapters. XD
> 
> Thank you for sticking with me and my two dorks!

          If there had been even the smallest chance that bellyaching would get her out of a meeting, Kasde would have pounced on it. Unbecoming as it was, nothing filled her with more anxious dread that standing in a room full of people that _hated_ her, shouting criticisms down her throat. _Again._ That alone made her uncomfortable, not to mention a certain someone’s cold, dead eyes still floated at the forefront of her memory.

           Groaning, she rubbed at her temples. She had been pacing the width of the Chantry hall for far longer than was strictly acceptable, trying to keep her frayed wits from snapping. _Maker,_ she prayed, _give me the serenity to accept what I cannot change._ She took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

          Patience, however, was not one Kasde Trevelyan’s better traits.

          Almost immediately, Cassandra’s eyes shot to her, and she nearly fled right then. She had expected the Seeker’s wrath, but had clearly underestimated the frightening power of a pointed glare. To her merit, Cassandra neither moved nor spoke, likely awaiting an adequate explanation.

          The spymaster and ambassador tittered quietly to one another at the far end of the table, the latter casting nervous glances about the room. Whatever Josephine’s stance on the matter, she was evidently more concerned about bloodshed in the war room. Leliana, on the other hand, was nonplussed, lightly fingering a lose thread on the embroidery of her glove.

          Kasde swallowed the growing lump in her throat awkwardly. She began to turn – began to look – but jerked her chin forward and cleared her throat. _Serenity,_ she reminded herself. _Serenity, serenity, patience…_

          “I’m sure you’ve all heard the news,” she started, slowly. “The rebel mages have agreed to an alliance, and to help us seal the Breach. Josephine?”

          “First Enchanter Fiona has been most grateful,” the Antivan replied. “Likely, she sees this arrangement as an opportunity to redeem the mages in a…rather public display.”

          Kasde snorted wryly. “She can have all the ulterior motives she likes, so long as she helps.”

          “And if her motivation is less than innocent?” Leliana pried. “What then?”

          “I will deal with it, when it comes to it.”

          Cassandra made a disgusted sound. “That is _exactly_ the sort of narrow thinking that put us in this situation to begin with!” she shouted. “Your lack of foresight cost us any chance at an alliance with the Templars!”

          “My sort of thinking kept a Tevinter magister off our doorstep!” the Herald fired back. “Or had you forgotten that discussion? Foreign power, potential disaster, send the Herald… Am I ringing any bells?”

          The Seeker’s lip curled. “ _Regardless_ , your actions have put the Inquisition in a very trying position. We tipped our hand sending you to Redcliffe. Clearly, you were not ready.”

          “Now, that’s hardly polite.”

          Dorian leaned his shoulder casually against the doorframe, observing the argument with an expression of dry amusement. The smile, however was an obvious lie.

          Cullen’s voice boomed in the small room. “You,” he barked. “You have no business here. Get out.”

          “Is this the kind of treatment the Inquisition offers its mage allies?” Kasde snapped. “Helluva start, Commander.”

          He flushed. “He has failed to prove his loyalty either way!”

          “He proved it to me! In Redcliffe! Satisfied?”

          “No!”

          “Tough!” Kasde squared off with the tall Ferelden, who – despite his distinct height advantage – seemed to shrink under her gaze.

          Jospehine cleared her throat politely, as though scolding two children, rather than the Herald of Andraste and the Commander of the Inquisition. Silently, she made a note on her clipboard. “If we rescind the offer of an alliance,” she stated, “it makes the Inquisition appear incompetent at best, tyrannical at worst. We must make do with what we have.”

          Cullen ignored her and plowed ever forward. “What were you thinking, turning mages loose with no oversight? The Veil is torn open!”

          “They’re _people_ , not farm animals, you ass!” Kasde thundered. “If you have a problem with my judgement, we can settle this in the training yard. Otherwise, keep your opinions to yourself.”

          “I wouldn’t be much of an advisor if I did that, now would I?” Cullen sneered.

          “You’re not an advisor!” she bellowed, shoving against his breastplate. “You’re a bigoted ex-Templar with a mage complex!”

_“Herald!”_

          The last thread of her patience gave way, and Kasde launched herself at the Commander. Dorian, for all his preening and bravado, was quicker than a spooked nug. He caught the Herald about the waist, and her fist cut through empty air, just short of Cullen’s nose.

          “Now, now, _solira_ ,” he crooned. “We don’t want to hit the nice Commander now, do we?”

          “Yes, we do!” she growled. “We really do!” She thrashed in his tight grip, fingers clawing at exposed skin to break his hold.

          Dorian clapped a hand over her mouth, rolling his eyes at the ceiling. Smiling brightly at the others, he said, “Excuse us a moment,” and hauled the Herald bodily from the war room.

          His palm muffled her enraged cries, but did nothing to stop them. Furious grunts and high-pitched, angry squeals echoed through the main hall, which was blessedly empty. Dodging wild limbs, Dorian toed the door to the advisor’s quarters open, and deposited his load within.

          Once his hand left her mouth, Kasde’s ranting resumed in full. “—dog-humping _bastard!_ ” she roared. “Fereldens!” She kicked over a nearby stool with a disgusted shriek. “Uncultured, undereducated backwater… _jackboot!_ Too busy waving his sword around like a Chasind _lunatic_ to see what’s in front of him! I swear if I had _one_ —”

          The mage let out a loud, defeated sigh. “One day, you’ll thank me for this.”

          His hand cracked across her cheek with enough force to daze her momentarily, effectively ending her verbal onslaught. Kasde blinked rapidly, as though waking from a deep, deep sleep.

          Dorian observed her curiously. “Better?”

          “Better,” she agreed, still somewhat stunned. “Thanks for that.” She dragged a hand across her face. “What am I doing, Dorian? How do I even fix this?”

          “I hear apologies are all the rage of late. You might try that,” he offered thoughtfully.

          “Apologize. Right. I can do that.” She let out a pitiful whimper. “I don’t think I can do that.”

          Chuckling quietly to himself, Dorian took her by the shoulders and angled her at the door. “Oh,” he said, “I think you can. The trick is to avoid eye contact. That way, no one can tell you’re embarrassed.”

          “You seem quite the expert.”

          “Quiet, you. Now, chin up, and off you go.”

          Kasde whined.

          “None of that. Shoo.”

          It proved agonizingly difficult to keep her eyes off the floor. Her noble birth did nothing to curb the shame in her belly. Nobles felt shame; they were merely experts at hiding it.

          The war room was silent. Kasde would have preferred shouting and ridicule. The only sound was that of creaking leather as Cullen wrung his hand about the hilt of his blade. She met his eyes briefly.

He was very, _very_ angry.

          “I apologize for my temper,” she began, voice calm and diplomatic. “What I said to you, Cullen, was completely out of line, and I am deeply sorry for it.”

          He blinked, startled by her humility. “Apology accepted,” he grumbled.

          Lifting her head, the Herald continued on, “I will not, however, apologize for my decisions. None of you were there, and none of you know what happened inside the castle.” Josephine moved to ask, but she raised her hand for silence. “And I will not tell you. For me – for Dorian – the horrors witnessed are still too fresh. I’ll not have them paraded before you to soothe your sore feelings.”

          Leliana nodded. “That is fair.”

          “The situation at Redcliffe was already tenuous,” Kasde stated. “I could not have predicted that Alexius would throw me into the future – none of us could have. But we _can_ use it to our advantage.” She turned to Josephine. “Send word to Empress Celene. In the future, the Elder One had her assassinated. Say whatever you have to, but make her listen.”

          “A vague warning from an upstart organ—”

          Kasde slapped her palm against the table. “Try!” she barked. “You’re giving up before even starting. How can you expect the people to have faith in us, when we don’t have it in ourselves?”

Josephine nodded primly. “It will be done.”

          “I will inform my scouts to keep their eyes and ears open,” Leliana purred, a bit too cheerfully. “If there is a plot to kill the Empress, I will know it.”

          “Cullen, how many Templars do we have effectively?”

          He scratched the back of his head thoughtfully. “Several dozen, by my last count, more than half of which were green recruits when they left the Order.”

          “Spread them out,” Kasde ordered. “I want all of our men trained and ready to combat demons.”

          “Demons?”

          She nodded. “The Elder Once swept across Thedas with an army of them. No one fights a demon quite like a Templar. You know them best; make it so.”

          “As you command.” With a bow, he moved to leave.

          “Not so fast,” Kasde said, stopping him with a hand on his chest. “I need you to work with the mages.”

          Cullen bristled visibly, a tight snarl tugging severely at his scarred lip. Varric’s words came back to her, that he hated mages. She had a moment to wonder – to doubt – but his reluctant nod stilled her.

          “Not you personally,” Kasde explained, “but they may have insight standard Templar training does not. Strengths, weaknesses, something we can exploit.”

          “Understood.”

          “My mark makes me resilient somehow, and allows me to close rifts. Our soldiers don’t have that luxury. I need to know they are prepared to hold until I can reach them.”

          A light chuckle rumbled in his chest, vibrating up her arm and toward completely unrelated areas. “As I said, it shall be done. I have your leave?”

          She started. “You do.”

          As he left, Kasde found her eyes following him. He was a baffling man, prone to quick anger and even quicker forgiveness. A man of conviction and loyalty, but also filled with fear and doubt. Some small thread in her was connected to him, and the further away he moved, the more it tugged at her to follow. She wondered, idly, if it had always been there, or if she, herself, had tied the knot during her time in the future. Was this feeling, so jarring and new, tainted by what she had seen? If not tainted, molded? More frighteningly, was it something she even wanted?

          She shook her head, certain she looked quite the fool. What kind of woman – what kind of leader – allowed herself such idle distractions?

          “Leliana, give me your reports on any recent rift activity,” she snapped. “I need to hit something.”

          The spymaster shook her head, tutting disapprovingly. “Not until a healer has seen to you.”

          Before the Herald could fabricate a believable excuse, Dorian was tugging at her shoulders, saying, “I take full responsibility. Healing’s not exactly an artform in Tevinter, but I know a thing or two. I’ll have your Herald back in fighting shape in no time.”

          Despite Josephine’s panicked sputtering – or, likely, in spite of it – they made for the door, Kasde mouthing a silent ‘thank you.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Questions, comments, concerns? Something you want to see? Drop a comment here or on my tumblr: https://eirlithad.tumblr.com/


	32. Pangs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kasde tries to cope as best she can, the only way she knows how. Dorian helps.

          Dorian was silent as he worked, which should have been a statistical impossibility. He ushered the Herald into her small cottage, sat her on the bed, and set to gathering supplies. He hummed quietly to himself as he bustled about, adding this and that to the bundle in his arms. Satisfied, he deposited everything onto the bedspread, pulled up a chair, and began cutting away at the bandage at her throat.

          As he worked, the quiet _snick_ of his scissors counted the minutes. He was calm, snipping away with an easy, carefree smile pulling at his mustache.

          “Dorian?”

          He hummed attentively, focused on his task. When she spoke again, he paused to avoid nicking her skin.

          “Why are you helping me?” Kasde asked quietly.

          The mage chuffed quietly, and tipped her head to allow for better access. “Because,” he replied, “you won’t let me heal this, and I won’t have you mangling the stitch work.”

          “That’s not what I meant.” Dutifully, Kasde pulled the loose strands of her hair out of harm’s way.

          The scissors snipped away for several long moments. Dorian was careful to cut away from the wound, and the blade dragged gently across her skin, almost tickling.

          “You meant,” he said, unwinding the soiled bandage with practiced care, “why haven’t I slit your throat?” His voice was light and amused, not offended in the least. “I am many things, _solira,_ but a liar is not one of them. I would not earn your trust, only to take it away.”

          “Thank you.”

          He snorted inelegantly, placing the scissors on aside. “For a noble, you’re quite good at that.” He examined the wound, pinching at pulling tenderly at the edges. “Most I’ve known were greedy, self-righteous sycophants with no concern for those around them. What’s a peasant or two, so long as your belly is full and your name is on everyone’s lips?”

          “You…didn’t have slaves then?”

          “My family did,” Dorian replied, wetting a strip of linen with several drops from a healing potion. “And their friends’ families. I was close with one of their sons. They had this one slave. Elven boy, about our age. Not very smart, but what could we expect? No one had ever taught him to read, or write, or do anything more than obey. So, I taught him.” Gingerly, he swiped the grime and dried blood from her skin with the cloth.

          “What happened?”

          “My _friend_ sold us out. His father caught the slave with one of my books.” His face fell. “I tried to explain – to tell him it was _my_ fault – but… It didn’t matter. They had him beaten. My friend said, ‘good slaves aren’t smart, merely obedient.’ I could never truly look at him after that.”

          “What happened to the slave?”

          Dorian shrugged. “A few broken bones – none that would impact his daily work, mind you – and an impressive gash on the forehead. He needed stitches.”

          Kasde laughed lightly. “Explains you knowing how to do this.”

          “I never said _I_ stitched him up,” the mage snapped.

          “You didn’t have to.”

          Dorian sighed, dropping his hands into his lap. He sat silently for a moment, lost in thought, shoulders slumped. Then, he grinned sadly, taking her chin between his thumb and index finger. “What an odd pair we make,” he whispered. “The rogue afraid of healers, and the Tevinter repulsed by slavery.”

          Kasde jerked back. “I’m not afraid of healers,” she insisted.

          “Then why—”

          “That’s not why I don’t want it healed.” Silently, she removed the glove from her unmarked hand and extended her open palm in his direction.

          Pale, thin scars riddled the skin between her fingers. Most were short and clean, neatly stitched by an expert hand. Slender, white lines in her flesh, with three small dots on each side from the needle. Between her thumb and index finger, a longer, jagged scar striped across the heel of her hand, ending just below the wrist. On the inside of her index finger, a thin, knotted line trailed from the joint to the topmost knuckle.

          Dorian twisted her hand over in his own, taking in every mark with a look of shocked wonder. “How did you get these?” he asked, as though her marred flesh was a treasure, rather than a flaw.

          “Teaching myself to fly.” With her free hand, she patted the dagger at her side. “That’s what my brother called it. Not fighting. Flying.”

          “Judging by these, you weren’t very good.”

          “Not at first.” She suppressed a laugh. “These are my wings,” she said. “I’m a bird, and the battlefield is my sky. With these, I can fly, and no one can take the sky from me.”

          “So,” he asked, swiping one last time across the wound, “why keep them?”

          Kasde shrugged dismissively. “Reminders. Each one was a mistake. If I see them, I’ll remember not to make them again.”

          “Redcliffe was not your mistake.”

          “Maybe not,” she allowed. “But there were things I saw that I don’t want to see again. If I keep this one, maybe I’ll remember what’s at stake.”

          Dorian motioned to a small blue vial beside her, and she passed it into his hands. Uncorking it with his teeth, drained it in a single gulp. “I won’t say this won’t hurt,” he said sympathetically. “Armor cuts are nasty business, and I’d rather not get kicked in the face.”

          “Is that why you…?” She trailed off, unable to finish the thought as a lump rose in her throat.

          The mage nodded. “He was going to kill you,” he explained. “Had I not intervened, he certainly would have. You’re lucky you weren’t infected.”

          “Yeah,” she replied glumly. “Lucky.”

          The wound was stiff, but that was unsurprising. As best she could, Kasde tilted her head, holding her hair out of his way, and did her best to sit still. Dorian was professional, lightly touching her shoulder before bringing his magic to bear.

          The sensation was strange, unlike any healing she had ever undergone. The spell was ever so slightly cold, whereas other healers had nearly scalded her skin.

          “Remember—”

          “Not all the way. Yes, I remember.” Dorian frowned thoughtfully. “I’m surprised you don’t want your man here for this,” he remarked.

          Kasde squinted at him. “My who?”

          “Self-conscious, are you? I would have never guessed,” he teased. “He’s got quite the fetching scar himself. Did you give it to him? A matching set, perhaps?”

          “Hold on. You think Cullen and I…?”

          The mage cringed. “You mean to say you two aren’t…?”

          “No!” Kasde blurted loudly. “No, no, no. Cullen and I – er, that is to say, the Commander and I – have a strictly professional relationship.”

          Dorian’s cheeks flushed, and he said, “My apologies, _solira_. You seemed very close in Alexius’s future; I assumed there was a…history, at the least.”

          “I would treat any of my friends that way, were they doomed to die.”

          “The way you look at him, I certainly hope not.” He winked slyly. “I think we both know that isn’t true.”

          It was Kasde’s turn to blush.

          The mage returned to his task, chuckling softly to himself. His teasing was strangely comforting; not anything like the cruel barbs her siblings had flung in her direction. It seemed innocent enough, and his apology appeared sincere. Nevertheless, Kasde found herself wondering why anyone – much less a Tevinter mage – would go out of their way to cheer her up.

          She must have made some face, for he laughed, “Don’t spend all day puzzling it out.” His eyes wrinkled when he smiled. “Did it ever occur to you that I might not fit all the horrible stereotypes of my homeland?”

          “I’m just not used to…” She fumbled for the words, gesturing helplessly with her free hand.

          Dorian, ever helpful, supplied an answer. “Friends?”

          She nodded.

          “Ah. Together, I’m certain we can do something about that.”

          At last, he pulled his hands away, expression patient and hopeful. Lifting a small mirror from the mattress, he motioned for her to inspect his handiwork. He had done a fine job. The main mass of the wound was sealed shut, just enough to prevent infection. Her body would do the rest of the work. All that remained was a thin, pale line, perhaps an inch or so long, that crossed from beneath her ear and just below her jaw.

          It wasn’t something likely to be missed.

          “Could you,” she asked, pointing across the room, “hand me that box, perhaps?”

          Dorian nodded dutifully, and rose to retrieve it. He paused a moment, inspecting the engraving. “It’s Trevelyan, isn’t it?”

          “Last I checked.”

          He hastily dropped the chest on her lap, and began rapidly ticking away on his fingers, muttering quietly to himself. Frowning, he started over, counting to at least thirty, by Kasde’s count.

          “My dear, would it surprise you to know we’re related?”

          The Herald sputtered wildly in surprise.

          “Not first cousins or anything like that,” he rambled on. “Could you imagine? But you _are_ Trevelyan, and somewhere, in the dank nethers of my family tree, there was also a Trevelyan.” A sly smirk crossed his lips. “Perhaps he was even the one who ventured East to begin the branch. We are talking long ago, of course.”

          Kasde’s eyes narrowed. “You know this off the top of your head?” she asked doubtfully.

          “Not off the top, no. Maybe the lower-middle thereabouts. Bloodlines are serious business in Tevinter, you know. We’re taught lessons and tested…by _very_ strict nannies. Can’t have every Quaestor from here to the Hundred Pillars claiming shared lineage now, can we?”

          “You’re certain?”

          “I had to go through the old mnemonics, but yes. There it is.” He held up eight fingers, waggling them for emphasis.

          “Wonderful,” she sighed. “More fame-grubbing relatives.”

          “Indeed. I, however, am content in my pariah-hood. I wouldn’t touch your level of political renown with a ten-yard pole.” He shivered. “Far too messy.”

          Kasde grumbled, “Thanks,” and lifted the lid.

          As she rifled through the contents of her footlocker, Dorian took to silently pacing the room, gently twirling one end of his mustache around a finger. There was a mischievous glint to his dark eyes that set every nerve in her body ablaze.

          With a pleased hum, she removed her prize from the chest. It was an exquisite, if not impractical, piece, made of polished gold and inlaid with Rivaini rubies. A gift, her mother had called it, though she had never once worn it in the span of Kasde’s memory. It sat for years, untouched, on the vanity, like an ugly vase from a distant aunt. What had compelled her to take it the day she left home, she could not say.

           “Back to our previous discussion.”

           The sudden sound of Dorian’s voice stilled her fingers on the clasp.

           “You and the Commander,” he went on, ignorant to the immediate reddening of her cheeks. “Cullen, was it? Horribly Ferelden name. Smacks of kilts and the distinct smell of wet dog. I digress. I find it very difficult to believe you two have never—”

           Kasde fixed him with a pointed glare. “We’ve never.”

           “Truly?” He sounded oddly impressed. “Life and death, the allure of command, not to mention you are both quite easy on the eyes—”

           She smacked the lid shut sharply.

           Dorian sulked. “Well,” he huffed, “you’re certainly no fun.”

           “What happens between Cullen and I is between _Cullen and I_ ,” she snapped, and set the box on the floor near her feet. Blushing, she added, “Also what doesn’t happen between us.”

           “I’m just trying to help.”

           “No,” Kasde corrected, “you’re meddling. Just like every other member of my family.”

           The mage grinned. “Oh, but _solira_ , are any of them as charming as I?”

           “None so charming as you, Master Pavus, but I will _still_ hit you if you insist on continuing this ridiculous conversation!”

           Dorian cackled gleefully, clutching his side. “See? It’s like we’re already family! A few idle threats, a few bloodstains… All we’re missing is good wine, a murder or two, and a carnival bear. It’ll be just like home!”

           “You’re gravely mistaken if you think that was an idle threat, _cousin_.”

           “Oh, I’m beginning to like you,” he purred. “Beautiful _and_ feisty.”

           Kasde gave him a withering look and lifted the necklace to her throat. “Keep calling me feisty,” she warned. “See how far you get.”

           Dorian sniffed dismissively, confident in his relative safety. “Now, _that_ ,” he chirped, “is a splendid look. Daring, with a touch of class. Very posh.”

           “Oh, good. I have your approval.” The Herald rolled her eyes.

           “And just like that, the image is gone. Have you considered keeping your mouth closed when someone pays you a compliment?”

           “Ever consider keeping yours closed permanently?” she sneered.

           “Once, but the conversation was horribly dull.” His smile stretched up to the corners of his twinkling eyes. “Now, what say we grab a few horses and go tackle a few of those rifts, hmm?”

           “I’ll grab Bull,” she said, shoving the chest under the bed with the heel of her boot.

           Dorian stopped with his hand on the doorlatch. “I’m sorry. Did you say ‘bull’? Is that some crude manner of southern slang?”

          “Nope,” Kasde giggled, hopping to her feet. “The Iron Bull. You’ll like him.” She sashayed past, backing out into the cold with an impish wink, and said, “He’s a Qunari.” In the time it took to blink, she was gone, twirling through the snow and howling with laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Questions, comments, concerns? Something you want to see? Drop a comment here or on my tumblr: https://eirlithad.tumblr.com/


	33. Stopgap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A good listener confronts the Herald.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the shoddy screenshot. I have precious few good pictures of Bull at the moment. >_<

           Dorian was not content to let sleeping mabari lie. For the next week, he continued to sneak Cullen’s name into every conversation he could manage. He did so casually at first, but as time went on, he abandoned all pretense and tact, dropping hints with all the subtlety and grace of an irritable, pregnant druffalo. To make matters worse, Bull began casting knowing, one-eyed glances in Kasde’s direction.

          The Herald’s face rapidly assumed a permanent, rosy shade. Twice, Dorian’s probing caused her to slip. One such incident sent her sprawling into a nearby creek with a mouthful of blasphemy, and she sulked soggily off toward camp.

          Even during their evening meals, he was relentless. What started out as friendly banter inevitably veered off course and careened into discussions of the Commander’s _breeding_ and suggestive innuendos about _trebuchet calibrations_. After successfully sloshing hot stew on herself half a dozen times, Kasde stopped eating with them entirely, instead taking her share and stomping off into the dark.

          One such night, Bull took a seat beside her at the edge of the campfire’s light. He smiled cheerily, saying nothing, and took a long drink from his oversized mug. Kasde was no fool; she knew precisely what he was up to, and steeled herself. She would give him nothing.

          “How ya doin’, boss?” he said at last.

          Kasde twirled her blade through her fingers, glaring at the darkness. “Don’t go there, Bull.”

          “Oh, come on.” The large Qunari budged her playfully with his elbow. “You wanna talk about it? I’m a good listener.”

          “I’ll just bet you are,” she muttered. “Really, Bull, I appreciate it, but I’m fine.”

          He leered at her from the corner of his eye. “That’s crap if I ever heard it. Something’s bothering you. Doesn’t take genius to figure that out.”

          “Don’t,” Kasde said, and flipped her dagger, pointing the tip of the blade in his direction. Without another word, her fingers resumed their previous, twisting dance.

          Bull grunted absently, but was otherwise silent for a time. After taking another long drink, he nodded at her weapon. “Nervous habit?”

          Her breath hitched; her fingers stilled. “No.” She sheathed the blade with an angry jerk of her arm.

          “Mmm-hmm. And that chanting thing you do in a fight? Maker guide me, and all that crap. That’s not a habit either, is it?”

          Kasde glared at him. “Are you trying to piss me off?” she growled.

          “I think the ‘Vint has that part covered, boss.” Bull sighed, shaking his horned head. “I’m not trying to rag on you, but something’s eating you, and I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

          “Did it ever occur to you that it’s none of your business?”

          “Hey, I’m stickin’ my neck out, same as you,” he rumbled. “Maybe not as far, but still. If you’ve got some kind of hang up that could get me or one of my boys killed, I think I have a right to know.” He shrugged. “Besides, who knows? Maybe I could give you some advice.”

          Kasde shoved off her perch and scowled down at him. “Why not?” she hissed. “Spat out of the Fade, blamed for everyone else’s problems… I’m a walking sacrilege. May as well convert to the Qun while I’m at it.”

          The Qunari’s frown deepened measurably. While he said nothing, it was evident a line had been crossed.

          She dropped her gaze. “I’m sorry, Bull. That was unworthy of me.”

          He grunted quietly, and patted the ground beside him, saying, “Take a seat, and have a drink. I think we need to have a good, long talk.”

          “I’d really rather not.”

          “Wasn’t asking, boss.”

          Shamefaced, Kasde dropped to his side, tucking her knees under her chin. She had been out of sorts for days, throwing herself into danger to keep from going mad. Dorian’s incessant heckling had only made matters worse. Sitting still – even for just a moment – made her shoulder blades itch, and a looming, brassed off Qunari did little to slow her racing mind.

          Once she was settled, Bull pressed his mug into her much smaller hands. “So,” he started, “you talk, I listen. Sound good?”

          “Not really sure where I should start,” she mumbled.

          “Skip the family crap,” he suggested. “What’s bothering you _right now_?”

          “You mean besides this conversation?”

          Bull hummed thoughtfully. “Deflecting with humor. It’s a good tactic, but I’ve seen better.” Leaning down so that his one eye was level with the pair of hers, he whispered, “Ben-hassrath, remember?”

          Kasde grumbled unhappily, tracing the lip of the mug with the edge of a fingernail. Bull sighed, long and hard; the sound of someone refusing to let go.

          “It’s not something I want to talk about, Bull,” she said finally. “Please, just…respect that? I’m dealing with it. In my own way, I guess.”

          “Does this have anything to do with Cullen?”

          She made a demented face.

          “Come on, boss,” Bull chuckled. “It’s not like it’s hard to see.”

          “Funny, coming from the guy with one eye.” She shook her head, swirling what remained of Bull’s drink around the sides of the mug. “It’s…complicated.”

          “Nothing’s _that_ complicated. Just talk to him.”

          Kasde sighed and placed the untouched drink between them. “It’s not so simple,” she muttered. “What’s bothering me? He doesn’t remember any of it.”

          “No shit?” The Qunari seemed genuinely surprised. “Does this have anything to do with what happened in Redcliffe?”

          She scoffed, “You could say that.”

          “Let me guess: shit went down, and he gave himself up so you could escape. Sound about right?”

          “In a manner of speaking, yeah,” she replied leerily. It took a great deal to school her expression, but she managed. “Mind telling me how you know that?”

          Bull’s laughter boomed in the still night, provoking a rather peevish _“Do shut up!”_ from the direction of Dorian’s tent. Through the open flaps, Kasde saw the mage flop back onto his bedroll, spewing a litany of Tevene curses as he promptly mashed his pillow over his ears.

          Once Dorian had quieted, Bull eased back into the conversation. “Cullen seems like the self-sacrificing type. That’s all.”

          “Oh, that’s all, hmm?”

          “Well, that,” Bull mused, retrieving his drink, “and you’ve got the look. Every time the ‘Vint drops his name, like some asshole just kicked your puppy. You know the one.”

          “I don’t have a puppy, Bull,” she said. Her voice sounded hollow in her ears.

          “Yeah, but he’s got the eyes for it.” With another heavy sigh, he added, “Look, boss, I don’t know what went on in that freaky, twisted future you wound up in. Frankly, just thinking about it creeps me out.”

          Kasde grunted.

          “But what I do know is that none of it _really_ happened. World’s still here, demon-spitting hole in the sky and everything that comes with it. Whatever you saw, you need to let it go.”

          “Easier said than done.”

          “If you keep living like we’re all already dead, there’s not much point in the Inquisition, is there?” Bull growled. “I brought my boys on because I saw fight in you. I saw someone who could change things – make people listen.”

          The Herald chuckled darkly. “Maybe your eyesight’s off.” She was beginning to regret refusing that drink.

          Bull shook his head. “See, I don’t buy that crap,” he said. “You can beat yourself down into the dirt, but you’re not the kind to stay there and wallow in it. I can’t help you up; that’s for _you_ to do. But I _can_ promise you it won’t go down the way you saw.”

          “How do you know?” Kasde sulked, lowering her chin behind the cover of her arms.

          “You won’t let it.” He clapped her across the back with a meaty hand and ambled to his feet. With a knowing grin, he winked down at her – or perhaps blinked. The lack of a second eye made it difficult to tell. “Oh,” he perked up, “almost forgot. Harding dropped this off.”

          A pale fold of parchment fluttered into the Herald’s lap.

          “Hope you like bogs, boss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Questions, comments, concerns? Something you want to see? Drop a comment here or on my tumblr: https://eirlithad.tumblr.com/

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic, so any and all feedback is much-appreciated!  
> Love to all of you!


End file.
